Reservoir
grief is the love that has no place to go.
for several seasons, you received my river
diving ever towards you from a height
bringing you the trickle of my many mountaintops
all gathered, thundering, in the
valley between your arms
and spread out, out, out over the delta between us,
full of birdsong conversation,
finally shallow enough to see my feet
but still strong enough to carve patterns everywhere I looked
one day
there was a wall where there had been no wall.
my river hit unfamiliar stone.
but there was so
much
water
still coming down the mountain
it climbed brick by brick as only rivers can -
by becoming more, and larger,
looking for a space to sneak past to that remembered meeting.
any space would do.
deep was my love that had no place to go.
one day
this lake of drowning felt a tug
as one edge touched another valley
(much higher than yours; heading elsewhere)
and slipped in.
the waterline forgotten,
a surge of springmelt found the furrow
and decided to seek a new sea.
and even as I flash and plunge,
finally free to gallop toward another waiting shore
giddy and glistening
i see
you forced me to fill myself first.
sweet is this love i had to grieve to know.
