J. K. Durick
Rivers in Vermont
Around here we take them for granted
A bit of background, a little fishing,
Of course, and the bigger ones get
A kayak or canoe or two, but mostly
They are scenic, a postcard’s worth,
Rage a bit in spring, dry to almost nothing
In summer, in winter they disappear
Clogged and cluttered with ice, waiting.
They’re easy to forget, almost secret,
A whisper in our crowded lives, but
There are times like with Irene or Sandy
When they get loose, lose the tameness
We’ve bestowed on them, crash into
Our lives, roads and bridges, even houses
And graveyards, ways in and out of town
Lost, the sense of well-being washes away
So easily, leaves us guessing, planning
More than a little uneasy about our hold
On our things, our understanding of place
And our role in it, unused to this bullying,
Quiet friends turning on us is humbling.
Then it all returned to the way things were,
The next day we began to clean up, console
Ourselves, pat ourselves on the back, and
The rivers went back to their banks, back
To their beds, back to their assigned roles,
A bit of background, a postcard’s worth.
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Write Room, Black Mirror, Third Wednesday, Foliate Oak, and Orange Room.
Return to March 2014 Edition
Around here we take them for granted
A bit of background, a little fishing,
Of course, and the bigger ones get
A kayak or canoe or two, but mostly
They are scenic, a postcard’s worth,
Rage a bit in spring, dry to almost nothing
In summer, in winter they disappear
Clogged and cluttered with ice, waiting.
They’re easy to forget, almost secret,
A whisper in our crowded lives, but
There are times like with Irene or Sandy
When they get loose, lose the tameness
We’ve bestowed on them, crash into
Our lives, roads and bridges, even houses
And graveyards, ways in and out of town
Lost, the sense of well-being washes away
So easily, leaves us guessing, planning
More than a little uneasy about our hold
On our things, our understanding of place
And our role in it, unused to this bullying,
Quiet friends turning on us is humbling.
Then it all returned to the way things were,
The next day we began to clean up, console
Ourselves, pat ourselves on the back, and
The rivers went back to their banks, back
To their beds, back to their assigned roles,
A bit of background, a postcard’s worth.
J. K. Durick is a writing teacher at the Community College of Vermont and an online writing tutor. His recent poems have appeared in Write Room, Black Mirror, Third Wednesday, Foliate Oak, and Orange Room.
Return to March 2014 Edition