Crossing the River
By Barry Ballard

The number of times we've fallen reminds
us of the way bedrock shifts, regardless
of the way we see, or the way it sees
us. Today it's the stream dreaming the man,
and not the other way around, a design
of who I am deeper than the shattered theft
of my reflection by its gleaming beads
of light. I have a small hope that's left the sand

(Almost an involuntary risk), like
the curved edges of Maple leaves, liberated
and make-believing they are boats. They carry
their disease, their worm-eaten history, while
the dying Sun spikes our journey, while the Cypress
lean their copper heads, to see which way we'll go.

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