Low Water

The gentle South Platte carves eyes, no, almond-shaped
Sandbanks inside itself, juxtaposed with weedy islands

In the shape of odd legs. “The water looks alive,” he said.
She looked for the life he saw. It was there, crawling light.

A nod. Mosquitos not a problem yet, the two could dream
Of spending long days here, sitting side by side with quiet minds.

Content. Perhaps a little bored or spent. Noticing the echoed bloom
Of clouds above the distant cottonwoods. Dissecting dried weeds.

Perhaps both remembering the stolen day they waded
Face to face in this same place four years ago, shirts pulled up

Just enough so winter’s white bellies could mend and touch
While water traced the almond shapes of ankles.

No one watched from the high bank that day.
Even herons overlooked the danger of that kiss.

Today there is no kissing or risk, just the simple shapes
Slow water makes of sand and love and flat bliss.

2012