Yesterday I was outside myself watching at water’s edge,
wanting to know dark knotted wood, snarled heart
of split oak, a pliable tangle of maple and birch bleached
on the bank—set free by nature’s rage. My eyes gripped
the storm. Something mystical happens in a turbulent river—
rush of sediment over rocks, driftwood pieces ripped
from resting places collide, tumble end over end, get stuck,
and break free. I was enchanted by their crash and crescendo.

Today is a cool windless mirror, yet
the sentiment remains. Sediment has settled into me.
It lingers with a want for some persistence and not just
as a witness. I want to wield my sword—cry havoc
and let slip the dogs of war. I want to twist and turn
words over. Rip them from this place and set them free.