Frozen Pantoum
What never happens happens
one long span of winter,
the channel of open water
crusts, folds in, scars over.
One long span of winter,
the river is bone-colored thread:
it crusts, folds in, scars over
despite salt and tides.
The river is a bone colored thread
we want to witness together.
Despite salt and tides,
cold changes the familiar narrows.
We want to witness. Together,
walls of the gorge lock with ice.
Cold changes. The familiar narrows.
Wind whittles down my voice.
Walls of the gorge lock with ice
between Crow’s Nest and Bull Hill.
Wind whittles down my voice.
Swans strut on hidden swells.
Between Crow’s Nest and Bull Hill,
a frozen passage seams the land.
Swans strut on hidden swells.
I balance on the pearly chalaza of a shell.
A frozen passage seams the land
and the channel of open water.
I balance on the pearly chalaza of a shell.
What never happens, happens.
By Jo Pitkin
(From WaterWrites: A Hudson River Anthology In Celebration of The Hudson 400, Edited by Laurence Carr, Joann Deiudicibus, Penny Freel, Rachel Rigolino. Codhill Press. Jo Pitkin lives in Cold Spring. Her chapbook is The Measure.)
