I flow today like this two-hearted river.
My energies come from two different places
in my past that should have passed,
but they have pooled around me today.
I trying to empty them. Dissipation. Loss.
The most famous Two Hearted River runs through Michigan and the branches drain into Lake Superior. That’s not my two-hearted river.
An elegant name for what is often
considered a weed. Wild carrot. White flower.
They recall a runner my mother placed
on the dining room table for holidays.
A purple drop from a wine glass.
All the rivers run into the sea.
Tributaries, estuaries where fresh meets salt water.
Rivers are always changing, but the cycle
is invariable; all returns to the headwaters.
Man. Water. There is no new thing.
Palmiet River (South Africa.) enter the Atlantic Ocean
“There is no new thing” – Ecclesiastes 1:7
It’s a fancy word for the simple
sound of leaves whispering in the breeze.
We like to name things. Especially when
we don’t understand them: illnesses, moods, stars,
scent of a baby’s scalp at midnight.
Some who live here have started already
to migrate south, often in breeding pairs.
Snow birds, though they fly from snow.
Mostly white, many older, letting others
fly, feed and care for them.
