POEM: Riversong

The valley slips into bridal white
patchy lacework above is
Ironed onto the ribbon that is flat light

Black crows like plump musical notes
On a staff sit on the bare arms of trees
And make a visual music.

Poetry gets at what is unspeakable
But only a photograph tames the sun
And shackles color, holding it fast.

The Seven Sisters have never looked so sleepy
Reluctant to raise its recalcitrant head
Against thick, smoky air.

The throat of the river closes
With the sludge of nascent ice
Winter silences a great song.