Ice walls marbled blue and mud
line the river’s wintry banks
where yesterday’s ice floe scraped
a new landscape. Again. Always
something letting go, says
the heart, remembering
how it too not so long ago
was violently, swiftly rearranged,
and how, when hope was flushed
and hope was gone that’s when
in silence and out of nothing
with the moon not listening and
the river off course, that’s when
the miracles were really easy
to notice, so much debris that was
just, where did it go? gone.