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A River

He rocked the boats,
Then the logs,
Then the erratic stone bridge.
He even rattled the wind 
Asking human recognition
In exchange for something
Like the loitering of an illusion
Around a corpse.
Had he been happy with his life 
He might have touched 
The dead leafs
Given to him by trees,
He might have smelled the flowers,
Instead of drowning them 
In anger. Yet still,
The water flaws at night
And in the day
It crawls beneath the sun 
Ashamed of sedentary thoughts.
- Mirel Brisca

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