28 March 2020

By Philip Kuepper

The river has turned
the marsh liquid.
Reeds lie sodden copper
on the mercury-colored water.
Ducks float level with the road.
Geese honk.  I toy answering them
with the horn of my Honda.

It is the moon, (full, now, or nearly so,
its pearl orb, hot, nights,
with the sun on its face,
light that covers the comforter on my bed)
that can’t let alone the tide,
the tide that can’t let alone
the canoe that, summers, is planted
to bursting with impatiens,
marigolds, zinnias, undulating
waves of colors when winds
muss them;

waves of river,
waves of flowers,
each in sway,
one to the other.

(9 March 2020)