Slow arcs spread across the river—
a muted green barely rippled by the passing
of empty tour boats and other strangers.

Reflections move along the street
unanchored beneath the feet of people
walking along the rail, crossing the bridge.

Pale sprouts of leaves
and the first hints of color
trim the limbs of elm and redbud.

A soothing of light rain
and the low haze of foggy clouds
shrouds all but the lowest floors

of high rise buildings
bordering the channel
and lifting mist-glazed panels

toward a gray-dimmed dome
that bends toward earth
in an embracing fog.

Should the clouds come low enough,
perhaps even the roughest edges
will become smooth.

If I could walk through glass,
I might pass right over this river,
and rise right into heaven,

absent the leavening thoughts
of lost voices and wrong choices,
broken body healed by the waters,

cleansed by the christening mist
and easing up through heavy air
to some new place

where seasons are not defined
by sun and rain
and the distances caught between

gentle words and soothing thoughts.

H. Arnett
4/2/17