I was fine
                      Oh, so fine
                         when

 It was just
You and me and the river
 
Pushing as hard as ice-melt
         Trying to pour her new watery-self
 
All into the tall, of my boots,
               Your waders , and we
 Held

Up our high
             As our PBR and Ketel 1
Minds
Met, there on those
Evenings where that fast

Coursed blind-unaware
Of her own beauty, flowed

--Right through
   Our hands, frozen there even as, our own

Slippery,

All graced-muddy
Filled

Us full-- of the canyons’s
Wildest of late summer’s dusks

---A quiet place in the lull of a low
Dull roar, where, we

Could just be.

And be
There, where,  for that short moment

We didn’t have to
Be afraid--- Cut loose from the fear
 
Of that terrible cold, that unseen
Hole hidden

In the deepest part of the
The rush,
 
         We were
Content, even in the water’s wicked
Chill
         Dark blue -to black- to gray—No,
We were all
 
Numb-fingered and wet
As time sat
        
On the grassy, saplinged banks
Holding, waiting for
         The Inevitable
Comings
Of  that dark night
     So sharp,  that it can

In fact
Slice right through the most eager of
Gloved thumbs
            In the ride

Through
Life’s relentless sluice
 
A box,
Now on the steps- Me, outside
               Sure as the separation
Of dirt
From its fools, we are
Re-reading
Directions on scraps-- that we believe 

Will be proof, that

                               Finally

We could be let go-- freed--

Time-
Traded-for Moment
                   And that
Then,  Persephone’s own red seeds,
            Too, could be released
 
In the warm
--Of maybe only a  candle, or
--Some reflected inner light
Light --That must be somewhere, But

Our fingers--
Are scraped to metal
                       All grid

Of  rock and hard
            Cannot find a way to flip
                    That softest - switch
 
So
Clumsy-soaked, we feel-- along
Ever drunk walls for love
             For
Gold.  Gone as sky. Sun’s set
We are done. Leaving even

Our teeth behind-- all but the one
You gave me,

Saved- safe in a plastic bag.
The rest, just.  Left.
Bloody, as stones --
Washed.  Cold.  In a bucket.

ANNIE SAUTER-PETRIE, poet and performance artist, lives in Upstate NY and Almont , Colorado. She doesn't write much about the silver maples or the Lupines, but it has happened. She began writing for the underground Presses of NYC and Berkeley in the 1960s.