The river slides a silver seam through town.
Bank-side blooms lift their faces to its crown.
Spring threads a thin, shy gold along the ledge.
Petals spill like small, bright coins upon the silted edge.
Lamplight sifts; a neighbor calls me from the lane.
His voice, a silver return, I hear it in the stream.
The waters whisper news in ripples seen,
Each and every turn, brown banks turn to green.
At our river's bend I pause; the current here is slow.
Silver settles, steadying the restless in my bones.
I learn the language of the sap, the warm designs,
and follow home by these soft, spring-time signs.