If You Are a River
you most likely spend your summers
meandering through quaint villages
and cuddling up to canyon walls.
Come winter,
you probably freeze your skin
and entertain dark and murky thoughts
beneath your cold exterior.
Until spring,
when you burst forth, invading fields,
tearing up those little villages,
carving up those canyon walls.
Unfortunately by fall,
you end up as
mere stain in the ocean’s current,
mere silt on the ocean’s floor.
At such time, river,
it is worthwhile to remember
that now you know what every river knows,
and you have gone where every river goes.
By Jim Pollock
copyrighted and printed with permission of the poet
No comments:
Post a Comment