by Jennifer Atkinson
The road took its way from the river,
Crossing and recrossing.
Stone dust like the rapids’ spray
Hung on the air and lay distinct
In the veins of each leaf.
How many years of patience—patience like a rasp—
To grind, to quarry a mountain down?
Stone bridges, their moss-tagged undersides lush,
Arc just over the water—
Motion and rock, spume and static.
Where the paved road stopped, the path began.
Briar, scruff aster, little heaps of goat dung.
Our days each as short as the sparrow’s
There in a wind-stunted holly.
Tufts of white goat fur in its barbs,
Tufts of white goat fur in her beak.
Near the edge, near enough
To taste the stone and the river,
The rush and cold water rinse off
Our words, even those we’ve not yet spoken.
Jennifer Atkinson is the author of five poetry collections and individual poems appear in Poetry, The New Republic, Threepenny Review, FIELD, and many other journals. Both her poetry and her nonfiction have been honored with Pushcart Prizes. She teaches poetry and creative writing at George Mason University.