The River Green  

the river cares not about the husk of moon afloat in it’s vein
or the herds that sack her bridges in the squint of day
the river begs a walk on her bank
a trial under her erosive scales
a paper boat on her bosom
she is now stalled with ice
shot dead under a thousand falling heavens
but she is still alive
still a roaring bolt
december’s frozen froth
cracks in the night
and wakes those too far from the pillow

she cracks electric right before my eyes
busted white opens to a sliver of clear green
an old wheel turns on the bottom
dead brown with decades
it leaves no autograph
but a trail of brown rust
through the center of the moon

© 2006 Mike Gravel