Tuolumne River
My mother ankle-deep, wincing at the cold,
tucking all that red hair beneath her cap.
Tilting her head. Looking like that. Again
I tread water, again she wades in - this matter of swimming
something to be done.I watch
her white cap
then her face, laid on the water,
her blank white cap
then her faceand I dive - through the glared surface of memory
into cool green water. In the veiled light
I can see the blurred strawberries on her suit like mine
and the fixed triangle her legs form as she stands
waist-deep now, braced against the current.The river pulls me,
threads me between her knees - past the freckled skin
with its fine hair up close that billows like grass.
I turn, work my way
upstream again: just one last time.