A Virelai

For the San Pedro River, my home

Virelai for the San Pedro

Can you hear the valley calling?
Can you hear the waters falling
not long ago?
Roots were woven widely, scrawling
there the water’s writ, nor walling
the precious flow.
Rich the valley; dusks are drawling
summer’s voices, sleepy, sprawling
in shade below.
For still the woven roots may know
the winter’s rain, the summer’s blow,
the transient green;
and branches slender shadows throw
and leaflets shiver to and fro
within the screen
that water brings, and all things grow
beneath their shade; the dark and glow,
the in-between.
And yet the river, ancient queen,
lies dry and cracked and dull and lean
beneath the sky.
Her deadwood nature’s cast-off treen–
dried branches, sun has bleached them clean
and there they lie.
Yet how much beauty still is seen
as she lies dying, shade and sheen,
and must she die?
Her ancient beauties need not dry,
for age is not the reason why
her steps are stalling.
At years she smiles; she may defy
their changes—nay, the years bring by
no grief, no mauling.
Return her waters; cease to pry
and poison them; I hear her cry,
even yet enthralling.

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The shooting stars–ah,
they fly faster than the Swan
at summer’s ending.

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