When shards of ice numb the riverbank,
Ask me why I stand here now,
Skipping stone after stone,
Hoping one will clatter
Onto the opposite bank.
When I’ve had time to forget
The snakes and the mosquitoes,
Ask me why this silent humidity
Is like fire in February.
Yes, when the river is only memory,
Ask me about this sheen of water
That masks the motion of fish,
And obscures these currents of time.