“The Lament of Loving”

I have a picture in my memory of a river trip,
with white fog flowing down
the Catawba river, as if even the air ran to the sea.

I wanted her to lie in the tent pressed against me;
breathing the air that drifts from the river at night;
dense with the smell of sweet maples and river algae.

I wanted her to inhale the smoke of a driftwood fire
in fog to thick to carry any sound,
but the rushing of water over rocks and the shrill cries of ospreys.

I wanted the musty smell of the tent
to mix with the breath of warm, wet, wool
and flood through her mind.
Until the river ran in her blood
and she could not help but to return.

Yet now, I lie face down on the round rocks and cry
until the drips from my tears steep down
into the dried mud and algae,
and the hot breath of the river
rises steaming and sweet around my face.