I Am The River Flowing
Hybrid prose poem
Does the river ever sleep
— might it feel the impact of frost?
Does a house have bones
— can it sense the breeze of a human hand rushing down the stairs? Is it aware of who occupies this space inside as heat departs the chimney?
Can a house have a spirit? I think this one does. I feel it looking over me — shielding a time-capsule around and overhead — connecting me to all the love and hope that erected it to be.
The touch of worn velvet leather
The taste of honey ginger tea
I glance upon the river — still yet flowing — always flowing downstream though I can’t perceive the downward pull, just the rippling drift of sunlight which reminds me there is still movement amidst the frost, no matter how inaccessible it seems for now.
There is cinder block lining the walls as I descend the basement stairs — and always this whispering question — who has been here before? — as spider crickets dash behind a crack in the basement floor. They seek moisture — disinterested in the upper chambers of this home. So I leave them — knowing their place is also here — likely more of them than I care to consider — the very thought sends a rushing quiver up my spine and a skipped breath.
Relieved by my quick ascent and the closing of a door I return to the window where there is this longing, always a longing to stay just a bit longer — perhaps to fuse with the traveling stillness — feeling owned by it once again apart from drowning.
Breathe & Be Still ©2023
As I finish this poem a familiar visceral sense comes over me and I think: wait, I wrote a poem like this before. As it turns out, this time a year ago I was writing a very similar poem — chipping away at this feeling that I just can’t grasp with words (no matter how many times I try). The river has a seasonal-cycle all of it’s own design and it compels me to come back again and again to find my place within it. The winter season being the most abstract and difficult to embrace and articulate (for reasons any poet can surmise).
A very special thanks to J.D. Harms and Melissa Coffey, the editors of Scrittura, for keeping the creative gears spinning and helping me get beyond the rough drafts.
