rapids SB

Riffle
murmurs,
a hint of turbulence.
A river’s whole life,
condensed.

I have a past,
leaping
falling,
eroding to today.

Let me not turn placid,
smooth
worn,
weedy.

I do not mourn the waterfall years,
times of deadly rapids
but Lord save me
from becoming a fly-buzzing,
stagnant
backwater.

Between the past and maybe,
a riffle
not yet silenced.

Halfwise 2006