THE RIVER
THE RIVER
Six- thirty-five
with my morning
cup of Joe;
watching it snow
like a scene out
of Currier and Ives
that has come alive.
Farther still where
the land
gives way,
the swirl
of white erases
all away.
A hint of cold through
the window pane,
I feel its
fire as
yesterday’s
memories
filter in .
Out there,
where the land is
brown and green;
sloping in its
leisure;
ending at the
river’s edge.
Out where the
night’s
fragrant warmth
peeks
from behind
mid-summer’s
blooms.
The scar of
the opposite bank
exposing root and red clay
as if it had
been carved out
by a dull blade.
The river
with its
emerald oil sheen
and
choking leaf rot ,
all swirling into
the deep waters
of human ash.
This is the stream
where the
dead live ,
the water dark,
the trees,
the flowers
are black ;
as all resistance fades;
the light of day falls
into night;
erasing all from sight.
I began the slow descent
into myself.
And for one
brief moment ;
the river
lives.
Please login or register
You must be logged in or register a new account in order to
Login or Registerleave comments/feedback and rate this poem.