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.