I’m letting the Cofokabe River
run dry, pulling up stakes from one-horse
villages with nothing to deliver.
The waterways, they flourished once, their course
ran sweet as apricots and salsa hot.
We gathered, felt uplifted, never forced.
Your songs reshaped my politics, your thought
on Russian Lit unearthed simplicity
I feared I’d lost. We gave, we learned, we got.
But rivers bend and yearn to reach the sea.
Lid bangers, chronic grievers, sere the banks;
entangled, hopeless, you don’t interest me.
And so, dear Cofokabe, evaporate!
When springtime reigns, we may yet celebrate.
This sonnet was written in terza rima with an anagram thrown in, so as not to be too obvious.
© Elaine Stirling, 2016