by Mather Schneider
This river is dying
it is just a dry
twisted
gash in the desert.
There is not even any mud under
the low rocks
for the javelinas to wallow in.
But when the monsoon rains
come in the hot belly-dancing dream
of summer
like laughter from the
hills
dangerous laughter
loud and wet and spraying your face
everything
is transformed.
It swells and calls
itself a river again,
not a wash or a gash or
a memory, it jumps
from symbol to something
infectious and messy, sand flows
wolf the banks
like cake, the savage
joy of it
with that pulse of
rapid change that passes
for meaning to a
grateful
dried up human
being.
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Mather this is the best poem I have read of yours since your last book. Well done!
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