nothing changes down at the river,
the wind blows thirty miles an hour,
and rain this morning
drenches everything,
urges me to
set my heart
to the river’s ways;
let everyone pass me by on their way to church,
let everyone prepare for Easter,
while the river draws me into its rhythms
of stars, moons, clouds and wind,
early morning rains
pull me
where songs simmer
ripening,
to let loose on the air
and birth me anew, seed me anew, cultivate me into
a green bud
softening to a sweet yellow offering—
recreate me in the image of a river apple,
blackberry or apricot
for all who pass
to bite into me and let my juices run down their lip corners
onto their chins, shirts and blouses
in a hungry celebration of spring.