I am old.
I walk into the river,
under the gray stone floeberg.
I am tired, and my eyes are dark.
I lie down, and the sludging water rolls
over me, slowly.
I am old and tired and very cold.
My eyes are dark, and my brown dreams
stagger as if to drown.
The shadows of those I’ve loved sweep
quickly past me. I see only their black
river backs. I have forgotten their names.
I can’t remember
the greens and blues of their waking eyes,
which I won’t see again.
And I won’t see again
the snow-geese flying over the ice.