Above the Elkhorn

The sun has come back north enough
To make the river sparkle toward the end
Of every afternoon. The river, Everyman
In brown, is charmless in the morning
Light. It doesn't dash against great rocks.
It has no rapids. All it does is plod its
Straight and muddy path. The sun turns
It to molten silver. Everyman becomes
A god, and I, who curse the thing for being
Dull compared to rivers I grew up around,
Great heaving torrents, splashing, falling,
Making clouds of mist, at last am pacified.
You're not so bad, my peasant friend.
The sun, your tailor, turns you regal
In the afternoon.



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 36 times
Written on 2017-03-21 at 23:51

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