"River"

On the surface of the old, slow river,
fragments of incandescence drift
across familiar green murk as birch
and hickory whittle morning to shavings.
A blue jay, lost in new foliage, tosses
splinters of song down through air
touched with the scent of tea olive
planted next to the kitchen window
up the slope of the hill.
You stand for a moment, then turn
to look past the cedar to the ripples
where a mate-hungry carp has just
slapped the river with its tail, ritual
announcement of spring's arrival.
A few steps away, the shed, long empty,
where the roan pony called every morning
and evening for its food and brushed
against you like a large collie, eager
to be stroked. Gone now as the daughter
is gone. You finger the moldering bridle,
then turn back to the dozen mudstone steps
cut and set in the hillside three decades
ago. The blades of arthritis stab knees
and hips as you climb back to the house
perched on the hillside for the final time.
The last truck waits to take you three miles
to the ground-floor apartment devoid of memories.