Clifton (draft I)

I can't seem to get my mind off the river today. Here's something old that I keep coming back to.

Clifton

In early December the waterfalls have frozen to icicles
on the cliff
the bank here is low and the river is still.

Our breath freezes and hangs, hands in the pockets
I think suddenly of farmers and country folks
distant cousins and old uncles- who walk with their
hands in their pockets and their heads bowed.
after years of pouring a life steadily like concrete,

I find my balance like that-
mittens crooked in jeans and eyes fixed on the
frozen glaciers of mud.

Walking slowly, we are weighted down by
the familiarity of sky, stars, and a milk-full moon
we have known half a world away

Tonight we are side-by-side, silent,
against the black curves of the river.