Three Rivers
for A.J.R.
 
Twenty years ago we walked your property,
ankle deep in the tall, wet grass, 
 gathering blossoms of popcorn flowers, 
 
wild lilacs, miner’s lettuce, 
tracing the downhill line to where lupine 
ran like blue lace across your wedding ground
 
and the Kaweah, rushing white 
and muddied below a line of manzanitas, 
tore at saplings along its edge.
 
That afternoon stopping for a moment 
above the river, we took it all in—
eighteen prime acres below Three Rivers, 
 
two new marriages, cold beers 
and steaks waiting back at the house,
the first glint of sunset spreading over 
 
the San Joaquin, and rapids thundering
beyond the northern bank.
We were all of thirty then, believing
 
our futures ran just as wild toward 
a gold horizon teeming with laughter. 
What did we know?