If the river divines a softness in the passing, there the water must flow.
Cicadas in bluegrass and all the Muting in the go-around as the pond frog wades to the surface of
Eternity.
The stilt house where the river women take their mud men into their bog. Let it be known that every
marriage is annulled under the haze of marsh law. Underneath the humid den, the lamination of the
coal rocks and the whispering of the cattail reeds collide in drizzling rain. The shroud of vines where
the cooing symphony of the insects learn to not kiss.
The rhythms reemerge and what once was, again returns.
If the river divines a soft spot in the passing, there the water must flow.
Delicatessen of milkweeds and sweet lies. The plush dewberries lust for the marsh flies.
The reed cat watches, at ides of dusk, the palm fronds sway quietly with the quartet of breeze, and
listens to the full notes of the mockingbirds that mock me.
Will you be mine?
The rain pools me a Wake.
If the water pushes on and the excess does not heed, so the imbrication of soil, silt and leaves…
The swamp is born. The land must yield. We onlook. Orange crush dawn.
—Saron Ghaim
Illustration by Lu Arie.
