If She is a River

If she is a river, then I am an island
Centre-stream, washed around, surrounded.
She takes away a small spit of land,
And leaves it in another place. Grounded
As I am in her bed, I am a part of her,
Yet outside, never fully knowing her.

If I am a river, then she is my rivage,
And I am fickle, changing with upstream rains.
She bounds me where I would be savage,
And levees me from wasting in the plains;
I take my course, my whole form from her,
Only in extremes of love overflowing her.

If she is a river, then I am a rock in her narrows,
Water-smoothed, deafened by her presence,
Tongued by her fierce rivulets into furrows.
I hold, and hold, and hold in her essence,
Until at last my foundation’s overcome by her.
I tumble, tumble down, finding a new lie in her.

If I am a river, then she is my whole winding,
Making me leap through gorges, and meander,
Leaving ox-bows of memory, and finding
New bye-ways, still backwaters where I wander,
Always content to be defined by her
Broad arms, at salt water’s finally meeting her.