Work Gloves
On the garden gate
Left here with me —
Shape of her hands
I Have Been Told
Down on the river
There is a small place
Where there is no sound
Nothing, and I know it well
And I have been told
And since found
That when climbing back
Loaded with water
At the top of the rise
If you half turn your head
The river will tilt into your ear
Horse & Farmhand
Here is the slowness
Of afternoon and sun
A farmhand bending to lift
A sleeve of ice
From a trough
In the pasture
The horse that stands still
The snow we’ve been waiting for
Winter Day
I swore if you laid
Your cheek, wind
Blown red as any
Soft maple leaf
Onto the pond,
And looked down through
The half-foot of
Ice, the rest was
Water flowing clear
Way back up to you —
The scales of depth
Catching your breath
___________________________
Bob Arnold
WHERE RIVERS MEET
