Living Midair    poems by Karen June Olson April 2019

A River

A river snakes lowlands,
gathers rain and wind-blown
seeds, ferries folks
and summer picnics,
a fishing pole, a kayak,
children who will leap off
a dock.

But a river is not
a dream—
it’s our fathers’ homemade stew,
all that spews or slips into the water
from industries, refineries, and farms—
notice all the weed-free fields waving grain?

There’s a hush in the house
where the cards are dealt—what
glow leaks from the landfill?

All things run
all things run
down to the river.

We forget
what is drawn
from the faucet.

Copyright 2River. Please do not use or reproduce without permission.