Haw River Meditation

Because I want to be good,

when I take my students

to the river

to write,

I try to set it up.

Think about what you're seeing.

(I have to shout.)

Think about what it means—

to see. (I look around.) This tree:

its branches—those bent lines have recorded

light arriving over years.

Those shapes…

(liking the way it sounds

I look at my students.

They look confused.)

…someone could tell

where other trees were blocking

light, and when,

by mapping where they bend.

Think about how the sun

shifted north and south—and back again—

each year. How it crossed

the sky a little differently

each day. Some days

there were clouds.

Some years drought.

West of here (I pull

back from pointing,

too late, unsure)

a continental seam tilts water east.

Some of that passes this tree.

I keep going:

settlement, displacement,

genocide, development, them—

and all of it, almost all of it,

is true.

But lately that seems false.

Lately, everything I

say seems false,

sounds full of being said.

My wife and I live

with fear in our cells. When

we went to the mountains

I saw low clouds tendrilling

bare elevated trees

and felt relieved by the words for that

and happy for the loneliness

I can have with her—

for someone not to tell.

I should tell my students

that I show up some days

tired and sad,

though I don't know what

to make of that

other than these sounds

most of them still can't hear.

I wish for them wonder

that I might see myself.

I wish for them words

that I might hear.

For myself, I wish for honesty,

and for the almost-

not-saying of these words

to be good

and plain.

I want to add nothing

untrue or overmuch.

Just downriver

the river branches.

When there's too much rain

it floods.