By Michael Wenham
Damp clouds draw breath through forearm hairs,
trees sweat faint salts, dusty quartz, and sway.
Snowmelt sun warmed river foams and ebbs about
my feet, always varied the waves, temperature,
chattering softly, velvet cool whispers remind
the shores and rock they will not remain.
No stone, granite, bentonite, steel rail, crystal shore
shall withstand the endless voice of the water, curling,
falling, chilling, deepening, rounding, flattening,
destroying, and improving best laid plans.
Numbing my toes, nails white from cold, tops blush pale rose,
sore pruned soles, wet rough stone, standing still.