River

Trudging through the woods
Limbs bent over under the new snow’s weight
As if bowing to some unseen god
Certainly not me, barely competent in snowshoes
I lose the trail again, or it loses me
And I trace the power lines down to the open field
Flinching at the crackle of each breaking branch

Past the defrocked priory I pick up my pace
Swinging my arms rhythmically
I approach the first approximation
Of the Stations of the Cross
Although there’s little sign of suffering here
Only silence and spooked deer
Descending to the river

I follow them, unsure of the trail
And the future that awaits
Trusting in the truth of the river
Black and alive as it flows
Ice clogged to Wellesley and beyond
I break my gaze and let it let go of me
Steeling myself for another ascent.