White Water Bend

Down by the creek, under trees,
where foam washes a green sound
over gray stones
in the undiscovered country,
I cannot stop thinking
of wheel ruts up the road—
always the same road—
of concrete cracked with dark veins
threaded through the years
in front of the feed store—
always the same store—
where I swing sweet oats
over a sour shoulder
that turns toward sunset
and a wagonload that rocks my bones
farther down the ruts to death.

But the rushing water—this water—
never sings the same note twice.
The finch catching fire
in the poplar above the canopy
tells me that all rivers marry the sea.
I have been single and sour too long.
No life should know the imprint of a road
well enough to travel by Braille.

I taste the white water.
Vines threaded through woods
are alive and supple,
veins connected to some underground heart
that is now my own heart—
not the same heart.

With the sweet smell of a bride in the air,
there is no turning back.
I will marry the sea.
I am a green sound
washing over gray stones.

Copyright, William Hammett, 1999. First Published in POEM, a journal of the Hunstville Literary Association.