Well, these two poems really belong together.
So I read both of them.
One is very short.
First is called high water.
The river is rising with the breathless sound of a fever.
The wake along each shore trembles and is torn away.
A few steps up in the rain, rows of white faces
watch from the banks, backs to the cellar door.
Behind the blue eyes are the cellars contents
silent in bottles each with its date
on shelves waiting under the dripping hats.
When the faces draw closer to each other in the rain
they talk like members of one family telling what could be
moved if they have to move it.
Saying where would be safe.
Talking of the gardens on the hills.
The rains other years.
What most needs repair.
What the spring means to the summer.
Even of the lake in the mountains,
which they owned together and agree once again never to sell.