the river
is no easy giver-up of secrets.
its solemn sentinels,
the egrets,
bare their beaks like daggers
glinting in the sun.
it is not something to be won,
to be wrested and maintained,
claimed and given names,
as if in naming a thing could be undone.
or if you come carousing
with the cotton of thoughtlessness in your ears,
nothing will appear.
nothing will be there.
but if you come with empty heart
to be filled with fountained fathoms
then the deep spring seep
will open up its lightless caverns and give
dragonflies dancing on the water,
the sleek black oiled back of the river otter,
the serene sinuations of the gator,
like a serpent,
like the meanderings of the river,
melted like flaxen thread in the sun.
it is not something to be won.
it is a gift of the giver river.
—
Marie Burdett is a professional gardener and current MFA student at the University of St. Thomas, Houston. Her work has previously been published in Lucky Jefferson’s 365 Collection, The Cypress Dome Literary Magazine, and Forbidden Peak Press.
