Three Poems by Hilda Weaver

Two on the Riverbank

In boots I squish through reeds
along the riverbank,
feel their whipping tongues
along my legs.

Across the mud gray flats
a little girl like me
plods through the muck
reeds knifing her the same.

Both of us are headed north.
We seek some hospice there
where we can meet
to bind our common wounds.

Maundy Thursday

What if he could be a pole held up above
            a fishing pond
            fake ripped
            with artificial waves,
tsunamis in a scientific fix-it tank?

Or what if he could walk the sea
            to see you
            on the other side,
            a watered waif
held fast inside a plastic microchip?

Suppose his incarnation learned
            to sing
            in croaks and spits,
            curl tongued
the x’s and the y’s of plane geometry.

Suppose he dies beneath the Easter moon
            cracked cruel,
            to whisper wound
            the equinox.
Post his death on Facebook later on in May.

I Want Some Times of Yesterday

I want to hide among the roots
  eroded, bare along the creek,
and be like beetles pushing dung,
  or ants which carry burdens
bigger then themselves.

I want to hear sharp splashes
  like the acorns make before squirrels
notice they are gone, or watch
  the moccasin uncurl, expose
its younglings to the sun.

I want to jump and grab the grapevine
  just beyond my reach and swing
across the creek, make it to the other side,
  and feel the mushy sand creep
sideways through my toes.

I want to catch a chortling frog
  to hold until I hear the dinner bell,
until I’m called back home
  to rhubarb pie, sweet corn, churned cream,
kittens on the porch.