YOU WILL CROSS A RIVER
for Joan, at the threshold…
You will cross a river, the first metaphor
each day, and you will think how many sources
feed the waters, and how many more
will join them from the lovely hills; how some
trickle, others gush, and many gather force
within the slopes before they stream –
like words from poets’ pens.
You will climb the dusty road to the old
dilapidated house and writers’ barn, its doors
flung open in embrace, and all the milling faces
will be new. You may think yourself a child
at the aquarium, beguiled by all the shapes
and curious ways of fishes, and ache because
your wish is to be one of them.
You will mimic how they glide through words
in effortless suspension, while a see-through wall
still hems you off, till one soft morning while reading
your new poem to someone on the lawn, you’ll hear
a camera’s shutter click, and looking up you’ll cast
a self-effacing poet’s smile toward the tourist van below,
and know that you belong.