Tributary

I have lusted after rivers
etching Picassos into hillsides,
mapping a handvein future we won’t understand
until it’s history.

I’ve been lured downwind and downslope,
fumbling across moss rocks and pebblebrook
to be enveloped in a tributary’s yawn.

I’ve made withdrawals from riverbanks
that I can never repay,
save for deposits of flat stones
I’ve taught loved ones to skip softly.

and when it was time to leave,
I’ve tarried knee-deep
where the current slows to a pool,
where the water at my shins is warm and still,
but my feet can still feel the low cool tug.