Margin of the River

by Devon Marsh

My son accompanies me searching for land,

a place to build a home, one where my family

can gather in the wake of a failed marriage.

We pause at a riverbank to rest our burdens.

Water sweeps toward us and past, rounding

a hundred-million-year bend. Wind furrows

the surface to a sheen. Rocks offer direction

as if current might not instinctively find the sea.

The flow comes down from an etymology

of elevated sources. Trace back to their

words. Trace river to Latin, riparius.

Farther still, the verb rive—to tear apart.

We look to the far bank. A lone deer grazes.

High ground behind us, a fine place to build.

My grown children could gather at the river,

disperse. I enjoy the sound of water.

Incantations of rills, murmurs of current. Flow,

having split a mountain, presents a peaceful scene.

The riven landscape heals, the river itself

a wound essential for carrying away.