Waterfall
For Walt Whitman

I say you begin with a pouring into
and not at all on your own…
the rain runs through you and you are returning the waves.

There you are running along the riverbank
and there is the stick you have thrown in. Follow it down the rapids 
as the rocks and current make open war on your branch.

The water courses faster now and you are at a sprint
long legs proud darting over fallen logs and around 
a killdeer nest and you have barely broken a sweat.

The mouth is foaming but it is not yours
The river is an orgy of white blood
and the stick nowhere to be seen but you know it to be there, 
sense it in your beard.

It cascades and pummels 
                        d
        
                           o



                             w
  








                               n

           

                                         the chute, the life spilling out of the mouth
                                                           and you a proud swan swooping
                                                                                   after it.

                                 There is a break as the wood opens a spot in the lagoon’s foot.
                                                 You emerge with the stick of America in your teeth
                                                                              floating away on your back,
                                                                   singing that you are glad of the shower.

© Mark Sokolowski