I picked some
flowers down
the edge
of
Willamette,
stem after stem
in my palm

and I whistled a
tune that my
father once
sang, but I couldn't
remember the
song.

Then I watched the
flowers
slowly wilt in
my fingers,
as high sun turned to
dark,
and city turned to
range

I held the loose
flowers
all tight in my
knuckles,
like the low river,
so ready to change

and humming his
sweet songs,
highs and the lows
I noticed
I'd
forgotten
the words

I was walking along
the banks of the
Willamette,
going south and
in song
like
the birds.