Clifton (draft II)

This river is mother to us all,
brother,

even tonight,
under a thin layer of frost, curled
like a sleeping black snake.

Half a world away, could we
imagine, this
awkward blessing,

side by side, staring down
at the tips of our boots

with the nothing to say?

It’s in our raising—
sitting still and listening
hands crooked in jean pockets

watching
the dark ground
for the first sighs of spring.