The Rivers of What I Can’t Forget.

As the petals of the red, blanketed flowers that would speak to us in bloom
Would fall dead at the bed of falling leaves that holds the lost womb of the willow tree,
That lovely stem from leaf where no river should pull along the tusks of ground,
And it should not break away from a frail dream. Why, must it be the river stream,
That curls along the frosted beams of the old axletree where it will be dried by the fog,
Where it will surrender to the slippery tears on a marred charcoal rock,
That has moss on it with little sticks, little sticks. It was a cold night.