The Canadian Geese fly with the Bald Eagle
in this stretch of Your ever emptying river.
Hundreds of geese lift off as one.
They chase each others tails, as they lift into a skyward V, below, where You, are said to lie.
Crystallized clouds, etch the greying horizon, the sun slowly slips into heaven,
with vaulted rays that split and fray, the last of Your light.
Now, we'll be
In the hands
of the unholy night.
Mallard ducks slide through the reedy edges of this winding river.
In the dark, they softly paddle, concentric rings,
Then, as if You suddenly appeared, they rise,
as one, rushing gust of feathers in frightened flight!
This river’s running full, overflowing into woods that hover close.
A copse of Birch,
whose sheaths are marked with initials,
C.W. loves R.T.,
an arrow through a heart,
a beginning to another start.
A fallen tree, all bent
and scarred, rising from the moonlit river, resembles
a Loch Ness monster;
It’s trunk lies bent with lifting humps,
a gnarled stump, a dragon's head, in full splendor!
You show us all the possibilities of a fallen tree!
All in the deep, are in search of Thee.
Cast off Your frock
of this land's seeds,
that feeds the rivers, the lakes, flowing into the Seven Seas.
The water has little dots and dashes of light,
an S.O.S. of a sunken ship, still signing home.
Melancholy is this river,
reflecting the evening's greying sky,
fallen clouds hug the water, vapor stirs above the waves, appearing as large elephants walking upon the water,
a kind of cosmic joke.
There is a silence, with far off knocks,
jumping off the waves like skipping stones.
This still silence,
when God is upon the river,
words become forever.
In her work of historical fiction, Morris tells the story of the migration of Jews escaping the Spanish Inquisition and their journey to the New World.
Lori Dube interviews newly local artist Maya Rose Weiss about her handmade, wearable art.