Domestic Sonnet VII

Have we all become riversoft,

edging feet toward oblivion?

The muddied bank blackens toes

coarse sand leaves bitter grains.

Does the wasp surrender her defiance

knowing she must bruise the fig?

Under the willow eaves

where we first lay down our names,

the sun once told us

we had all we needed.

Now it hurts to remember

and frightens more to forget.

The river keeps its unswerving course

moving whether we follow, or not.