Powow River
by Bob Moore

A curled oak leaf turns in the sun,
the sky a blend of blue and pearl,
the leaf hangs on where it first spun,
where it was left to grow, unfurl,

turn green, dance with its relatives,
watch from above the eastbound river
rising in the spring. It lives
in seasons where the water offers

everything the melting snow
supplies: the larvae, turtles, birds.
It watches from above, below
life reproduces without words.

Somehow it knows the storms will pass,
it waits to see before it's gone,
a time when the water looks like glass,
it turns again, holds fast, holds on.



 

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