River Home

There is no richer urge than
to be intimate with the water;
watching her languid aqua stretch
between the low lying land,
knowing her mood by color –
clear one day, dry skies clarifying,
murky next day after tributaries rain
their wash down creeks.

I fret mostly when she wrestles
with the wind, a lover’s clutch
and roll: southern storms,
winds from the west,
her slap in constant rhythm then.

She may take us after all; I see
the trail of driftwood and rubbish
marking her last landward dash.  I see
holes behind the bulkhead,
sure sign she’s sucked the earth
out like a raccoon does a hen’s egg,
delicious treat of mud and sand.

We pretend she’s not in charge, our last hubris,
yes, but also joy of being in her holy place.
Right outside our front door the sailboats sway
like us, believing in what holds them. The trust
of all moored boats is that our anchored swing
will be in concert, knowing wind and water will suffice.
And so I flow with my urge to lie beside her and watch
simple eternity cycle in a final journey
for all my many waters seeking our mother sea.

— VH McKinnie 12/15/04

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