Now What?

There was no rip
and wild fall.
We lay down, remember?
There’s frost on the hay—
we’re on our backs,
the blue sky
harder than we thought,
the river grayer
than it’s ever been.
A canyon wind swirls panic,
leaves and ecstasy.
It’s afternoon—
but who can tell?
September. The race
is dry. I wait
for what I’ve done to name
what I think I’ll be.
And if it does,
if I do, perhaps I’ll feel
myself again.
Or lacking that,
we’ll build a boat.
Up high there’s snow, and the geese
can’t make up their minds.