In this poem, I imagine encountering the ghosts of ancestors along the river bed.
Chilly mud dampens my knees
as I kneel at the edge of the river.
Relentless water ruts the earth,
pummeling ancient boulders,
stripping even grace bare.
I’m hammered by heartbreak
with ghostly mist my only witness.
When I finally lift my head,
the moon is my lantern and I see you,
standing silently by the riverbank.
My heart flutters, a tambourine,
till I realize how long ago your tears
fed this river in the opening by the pines.
Your blood now flows in my veins,
and you mean me no harm.
Your feet became muddied by this riverbed
centuries ago. I know not how I know,
but I do. Talk to me, I cry, but you remain mute
as the edges of your essence fade away,
your spiritual baptism of me complete.
I arise, bathed by the moonlight
and see dragonflies where you once stood,
dragonflies blessed with iridescent wings.
The river that once throbbed with dark despair
now glitters with droplets of precious black pearls.