Each day I cup my hands
and thrust them into the river.
Its green-brown color – dense and deep –
prevents preview
of what may settle in my palms.
The water moves with languid attitude on some days,
silent and slow as a sleep walker.
On others it races, tumbling over itself,
churning angry white froth as far as my eye can see.
Those days seem to come more and more often.
My cup is no smaller
than when my fingers were straight and strong.
But its capacity seems less.
Water flows out more quickly
as though its weight
has become too great to bear.