Ashawaug


Green Fall River

Before there were names and numbers,
before the birth of words
in the vowel-less slush of time,
it began.
A swollen burp
of swamp ooze and trickle
puddled, a deep,
jawed pond, broth thick
with dialect, catch basin
for all it wanted to say, birthed.
A narrative over poured the lip,
gushing, warbling
through brush banked ravines,
it’s watery voice
coursing glacial clefts,
flushing twig and leaf litter,
bits of linguistic matter
into pooled vocabularies,
bringing language
to clattering mills,
colloquial phrases
to the countryside,
eight wending miles
of soft-tongued river.
 
By Joyce Joslin Lorenson