Potholes

You’d never presume to tell a river it can water only one tree,

has to choose wisely and stay there,

become a lake supporting boats, maybe just a pond, or worst of all,

a vast, shiny puddle obscuring a pothole, a shallow jagged one

that damn near tears your wheel off the axle,

knocking your front end out of alignment,

the sediment from beneath rising, the gloss disturbed, becoming muddy when the dirt

swirls into the surface. Doesn’t take long—no depth to navigate.

Maybe that pothole was born of ice, or maybe, just maybe,

that river-fed tree kicked up its roots,

knocking a hole in that asphalt smothering it,

and when the rain fell, it drank its fill,

leaving a pitfall of destruction

for anyone who forgets

when to swerve.

Meanwhile, the river flows,

feeding the trees.