By Betsy K. Brown
Oh patient river, staid and slow, you walk
Along the teeth of terrible Mont Blanc
And daily dip your toes into the thaw
To water valley rivers with your awe-
Inducing, icy waters, mineral-gray,
Glinting with mountain-silt in bright array.
Men dug into your eddies, found a plane,
Bags of forgotten letters, dead as sleep,
Awakened by a drill into your ice.
What secrets must a solid river keep,
Not vulnerable or effusive like
Your watery brothers—still, will you explain?
Betsy K. Brown is a poet, essayist, and long-time educator. Her work has appeared in many outlets, including Plough Quarterly, First Things, New Ohio Review, and AWP's The Writer's Notebook. She is a poetry editor for the Anselm Society and the author of City Nave and Leading a Seminar on Frankenstein. She lives with her husband and son in Arizona. You can read more of her work and contact her at betsykbrown.com.