Though in a world of doubt surrounded,
our river plies, churns, hides its own
error, misgiving, re-creation, courage
of moment, witness borne, lost. Our hero
beeches suffer demotion to floats, serve
as fisheries, bubble up ripples, but if
confrontation cannot be avoided, indeed,
remains steadfast, they rise to bows,
turns, diversions, reshaping even water,
laying bare terrain perhaps unseen,
eternal in effect, sweeping in breadth.


In response to the Ahbra’s dVerse prompt. The first line is from a Robert Frost poem that I go back to over and over, Beech.