Lay me down, oh lay me down bankside—
scratched by the blue wildrye, I hear the freshet-rush
of the river drunk on winter’s waters, what lie
it makes of a hushed name.
In spring the waters animate and air-infuse
to a sea-like green, the bounty verging on a flood:
cataract and water-flare between two banks.
Will they hold again some softness, if not between,
then leastways on their rarer mossy slopes?
Does wavelike sweetgrass come, or just these spikes,
grasses better named for tail or brush?
When softness? as if that’s grace itself,
and all that grace will bring. Oh lay me down
or lead me there, to banks of waters solemn-hushed,
to waters still and home.
Geri Doran teaches in the creative writing program at the University of Oregon in Eugene. Her most recent collection is Sanderlings.
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