Memory-Stream

We enter the water together
my mother and I as the waves
wash over each of us,
either in ripples or in torrents.

The color of the water too
changes, green entering
into blue, receding then to
brown, mottled with leaves

and other debris like
discarded matches from
long-ago fires. We do not talk
about the dead flies and
withered branches,

but instead, the shimmering flit
of a dragonfly, melodious
spring peepers echoing a
cadenza over the
water-song.

Marina

I am walking over the water
river calm beneath me
wild wind tossing
my dress in the air
sunlight stinging my eyes
with rust and too much brilliance
I am surrounded by music
above the Allegheny
still as a sheet
of brown stained glass.