The River Clock

The river keeps a softer time

than any tower, any gear.

It counts in silt, in reed, in rhyme,

and never asks the hour year.

I throw a pebble, small as doubt.

The circles widen, then they cease.

What started in is starting out.

The water practices at peace.

Tomorrow is a farther bend.

Yesterday, a darker green.

I stand and let the minutes end

exactly where the current means.