She sits upon on a windowsill
and spies a laughing boy, about eleven,
walking barefoot down the river’s edge
beneath the tree’s green reaching hands.
The canopy throws its color down
and lights the shadows with reflections,
the subtle ocher, umber, rose
and violet rustle over every edge and
surface, every fractal point and pinion.
The locomotion of the whole
shebang, the cosmic engine, mindless
machine, turning, banking, sliding
through a water drop caught within a
blade of grass curled between two fingers:
he sees all this, and the running river,
lets the whole thing go, all those colors
running back to multiverse, to trees and leaves,
reflections, shadows, rock and stone
and cloud and water. She watches
from her windowsill. She snaps her fingers.
Lo, the wind comes. The low moaning wind,
the whistling wind, the shrieking wind. Her edgy
banshee sisters back from night, oblivion,
plastic trash bags in their hair, construction debris, dust
of old mornings, whistling and moaning
from the walls and props and underpinnings of the world.
Not even the winds look down from below,
where no bottom is, where no there is, where
there are just the thrice damned, shrieking,
and the sucking sounds, the lurching, the hideous foreknowing…
…and you wanted to write a simple poem,
about a boy and a girl beside the river…