A delicate fuzz of fog
like mold, or moss,
all across the river
in this early light.
Another day, I might
have still been sleeping.
What a pity. How the stars
and seas and rivers
in their fragile lace of fog
go on without us
morning after morning,
year after year.
And we disappear.
like mold, or moss,
all across the river
in this early light.
Another day, I might
have still been sleeping.
What a pity. How the stars
and seas and rivers
in their fragile lace of fog
go on without us
morning after morning,
year after year.
And we disappear.
"River" by Pat Schneider, from Another River: New and Selected Poems.
© Amherst Writers & Artists Press, 2005.
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