After three nights of rain
the singing river pushes forward,
pounds spray-slicked boulders.
Beyond, the hillside raises mossy
altars. Pick your way along the shore
studded with pewter, dove, and ivory
ovals, polished by the river’s grief.
Bow down, eyes level with water,
dip your fingers into the icy rush.
Alive. Alive, you can forgive yourself.
Build a small tower of stones that
someone might find if she stops
at this same spot, if she is waiting
for a sign.