Small Towns and Rivers

       Small towns always remind me of death.
     My hometown lies calmly amidst the trees, 
                        it is always the same,
                       in summer or winter,
           or the wind howling down the gorge.

              Just the other day someone died.
               In the dreadful silence we wept 
        Looking at the sad wreath of tuberoses.
                 Life and death, life and death, 
                only the rituals are permanent. 

                      The river has a soul.

In the summer it cuts through the land 

like a torrent of grief. Sometimes,

sometimes, I think it holds its breath 

seeking a land of fish and stars 

The river has a soul.

It knows, stretching past the town,

from the first drop of rain to dry earth 

and mist on the mountaintops,

the river knows 

the immortality of water.

In small towns by the river 

we all want to walk with the gods.