Seamus Sept. 5, 2025 The morning you were born, the rain was scattered with sun. It was the sort of morning you expect breath to be seen: the first hope of a jacket; the first chorus of yellow leaves shaking on the branches; the sumac and swamp maple, and the ivy around a small stump, all going red. By the afternoon, the rain was hardly a memory on the asphalt, so I went to the water because little blessings deserve prayers, and the river taught me how to pray.
Seven turkey vultures sunbathed in brown grass before they crowned a cloud. A heron preened oily feathers on a grey stone surrounded by smooth water. Spiders spun the wet sun from their webs. A stone can carry a wish in the right water: the way the right rock from the right hands, here, could go skipping on forever. The river always remembers a name born in the rain; the way the water striders keep spelling it out. Amazing, how a pink knuckle of lady’s thumb can hold the whole bank back: amazing, how two little hands and one, big breath can change the world.
"...The river always remembers a name born in the rain; the way the water striders keep spelling it out...."
Read "Seamus" by @nwhicks.bsky.social, a CT-based poet: www.poetose.com/pub/seamus-n...
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