THE RIVER

The River

Here the elements converge – earth, air, water, light.

         The river surface a rippling mirror of color

         in motion, blue sky, gray clouds, green

                  and amber canopies of leaves.

                  Turtles slip from rocks,

                           trout snap at insects. Deer, song bird,

                           fox, coyote, heron – predator and prey gather

                                    on its banks, laced with moss and peat.

                                    Lush with life, death. Autumn leaves,

                           decaying flesh and vegetation

                           settle into the fetid, fertile silt,

                  nourish river life the way

                  memories nourish the living.

         Amorphous, the river absorbs

         spring rains, gains strength,

                  swells with torrents,

                  folds in on itself,

                           folds oxygen into

                           foaming white waters.

                                    In summer, the shallow river flows,

                                    in winter, frozen over, beneath it flows.

                                             Still the river remains constant,

                                             knows its path. If you become lost,

                           follow the river as it meanders

                           down the mountain, makes its way

                  from source to mouth,

                  just as blood knows

                           its way around the body,

                           traveling from and to the heart.

- Diane Dolphin

The River first appeared in Poetry and Art, gallery exhibit and anthology, Wickford Art Association, RI, 2016. © 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.

RESONANCE

Resonance

Last evening, as I drove home

along the old back roads,

with the maples lulling

their colors to sleep

and yellow lights

blinking on in

quiet houses,

I thought,

this is right,

this much I know,

and the violin and

Emmylou crooned in agreement

with me, and I felt myself break open

the way storm clouds broke open, spilling light,

as if from their souls, across the fields

as we walked along the orchard ridge

lined with young pear trees

under the fractured sky,

and as we made our

way to the pond,

the blue heron

took flight

before us.

Resonance was first published in Bridgewater Review (2016, Bridgewater State University).  
© 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.

All Would Be Still

All Would Be Still

The rhododendrons

have hunkered into winter.

Thin, intertwined birches

reflect perfect twins

on the surface of the freshwater inlet.

Tall tawny grasses along water’s edge

waver so slightly, it’s like watching

a lover breathe.

All would be still, but the sparrows—

frenetic—flit, dart, dive,

alight on slight branches,

startle others who burst skyward

or drop to the ground.

They appear to collide midair,

break apart like split atoms.

Shrill quarrels pierce

the windowed wall through which

I watch.

I wish I could paint for you

flashes of crimson breast or blue crest

but they’re the color

of wintered leaves.

This is not a still life, and I

do not sit on a museum bench.

The sky has dulled, unsettled.

Pale sunlight peers from beyond

the firs. I pull on my coat,

slide open the glass door.

All Would Be Still was first published in Bridgewater Review (2016, Bridgewater State University). 
 © 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.

Counting in Circles (Eighth Anniversary)

Counting in Circles

(Eighth Anniversary)

I remove 4 red roses from the dozen, don’t want to

discard them, although they’re already dying.

For the 8^th year, his parents and brothers pull up in two cars

at Swan Point and we meet in the garden.

For the 8^th time, his mother wonders if he hears us and I

tell them how my grandmother always said she still talked to

my grandfather, how I’d tell her that’s natural and she’d say

but he talks back.

For the 7^th time, we joke about putting the dog’s ashes in

beside his and would there still be room for me.

For the 8^th time, she says he’s not here and I say

I still feel him in the house and then we get in our cars

and drive to the restaurant on the river for her birthday.

Today she is 90. Her son was 58. In 7 years I will become

older than him, just as I outgrew my mother at 41.

For the 2,920^th day, I tell myself stories about us. Once upon

a very finite time in a very particular place. But then

there’s quantum physics. Once my husband grabbed me

as I stepped off the curb and I saw myself split off, get smacked

by the passing bus.

If we could choose our date of demise would we?

So we knew exactly what we were counting up to,

counting down to. Would the dimension of each day

expand or contract in relation to what remained?

Scientists spend lifetimes radioing signals into galaxies, listening

for thousands-year-old calls. Tonight, I sit in my driveway, watch

the stone walls of my 200-year-old cottage shift color in the fading

light and think if I’m going to stay I might as well go inside,

take off my coat and own it a while.

Counting in Circles (Eighth Anniversary) was first published in Bridgewater Review (2016, Bridgewater State University). © 2016 Diane Dolphin. All Rights Reserved.