Many, no millions

Many, no millions of notes,
dark fingers bare and frozen,
each reach a paint-blown curve
toward bliss, they hiss wind,
vie close hollow sound.
Too, it could be the music of you,
but it is empty brown lifted deep,
surging sweet crystalline clatter
from the warm thick river,
glistening weightless on the tips,
the very tips of twigs.

 

 

The river boulder

Roll huge, hidden boulder
alive in a deep night sound
beneath the river's flood-grinding
movement of earthly low. A show of strength
caught in my chest.
I heard it, yes.