If the river is a metaphor for life and death,
for time, and loss of time,
for the rise and fall of seasons,
for disastrous floods that carry hope downstream
and leave stinking mud in its place,
what then, when a river dies?

You can see the river from atop
concrete steps with granite tread that lead
from the cobblestone along the current’s edge
to the manicured grass and pruned trees of federal land
beneath the stainless-steel legs of the Arch.
The Museum of Westward Expansion is closed for renovation.

This river was once the artery of a continent,
carrying both mound builders and mound destroys,
wampum from the east, slaves to the south,
Jesuits from the Great Lakes, conquistadores from the Gulf
who the Natchez chased through the Delta,
and Black Hawk who crossed from west to east, then back.

One does not need a Hollywood-handsome Moses,
red Levite robe, arms outstretched, staff in right hand,
to enter the river now. There is a third of dry land
on either side, like plaque narrowing the flow.
The Army Corps keeps the channel nine feet.
That is all the depth the nation needs.

Forecasters predict storms over the land,
in the near future, not enough to refill the river.
History never turns back against itself.
The river we can see may resurrect, and flood.
The metaphor, our nation’s soul, that river, I fear,
may be too low, too ephemeral, too dry to revive.

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book, Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.