Rowena River House

The wind represented time.
I didn't understand the connection
when my bones were still stretching,
when the road ahead
far exceeded the path already taken.

The gusts never slept,
not with my shadow,
not under the watchful gleaming eyes
of a spying universe.

Gales funneled through the gorge,
swiftly west to east,
as if fleeing the ocean's parental
scolding and inevitable punishment.

Was each breath beside the river house
one day caught in the sails of
the gorge surfers?
Or ten years compressed into the memory of a day?

How is it so many sunrises
were blown like clouds from the
horizon, and countless sunsets were
absorbed by these waters?

I know this breeze,
welcoming my overdue return,
holds the answer.
It finds me on the deck,
sitting with friends who
echo the same questions.

We stare at a new generation
on the river, their voices and laughter
muffled by distance.
Soon it will be dinner,
then dreams.

And the wind of tomorrow and yesterday.


(c) 2013 by Vincent Lowry