RIVER FUGUE IN A♭ by Andre Peltier

Sometimes when the sun
is rising and the dew
has fallen on the world,
sometimes when I sit
and wonder,
sometimes when the Earth
is spinning and the tunes
are lost to time,
we watch ice storms
down the oaks,
we watch the oaks crash
to the icy Huron, frigid Erie,
the St. Lawrence and
the North Atlantic.
The fallen oak drags its
amber leaves in rushing currents.
The fallen oak, like chamber music
in chambers of the heart,
is washed by the pump
of receding glaciers.
And we all fall down,
and we all clear those hurdles.
And we watch as coffee spoons
swirl and twirl and squirrel
away their ever-loving song.

Sometimes in the wake
of winter when the winds
of the plains blow back,
sometimes when I stand
and stumble, when the moon
eclipses every star
and the flames of tomorrow
burn bright,
it’s unclear what we want.
We want the empty matter
of life, the universe,
the empty matter
of everything.
And like worms after the storm,
we wallow in muck and gloom.
Like the worms after a storm,
we are stranded.
We want a hero
with cape and cowl.
Shazam of the first degree.
And we all fall down,
and we all clear those hurdles.
And we all watch as coffee spoons
swirl and twirl and squirrel
away their ever-loving song.

Sometimes it’s muddled
when the howling sleet
hits the windows,
the storefronts, the country
churchyard. Sometimes the cry
of night is deafening.
And who can tell?
The fallen oak relaxes in the river.
The fallen oak collects
the refuse of the rainfall.
The fallen oak drags
if white branches through
the pancreatic waters
of uncertain times.
And uncertain times climb
out to the tips of those
white branches,
the lifeless branches sagging
into the cold rush of water.
Into the frigid rush to the open sea.
And we all fall down,
and we all clear those hurdles.
And we all watch as coffee spoons
swirl and twirl and squirrel away
their ever-loving song.