Crossing a river can be like birth,
Dragged you are, down and around,
Only to burst out of the ripples,
Clean and nubile,
Wiggling to stretch
And grasp at the light for a line.
Washed and flung ashore,
Snapping off the memories
Like broken branches ready for the pyre,
You awake to recognition.
Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard