My River At Run-Off

I awaken, not knowing
what I will find,
throwing back the curtain,
I see my river wild,
but still barely coursing
between his banks.

Angry at flood,
he undercuts his enemies,
circling roots,
surrounds them shouting,
topples them,
trunks and branches,
trusses them,
sends them rolling
to the sea,
clutters them
with bodies of foolish
and careless along the way;

breaks houses and barns,
does not stop for bridges and dikes.

His the grace of an angry whale,
there is no boat can tame him,
no pretty scenes in his wake,
but a gift to those who call
muddy, twisted violence
beautiful.

In a few weeks
he will repent,
he always has before,
the willows will hang
withy wands and weep,
flowers along his banks
will bloom in long green grass
again.

flowing clean and tired,
he will summer sleep.