The River

I am born of the river.

It flows

Above

And beneath.

Each day

My frenzied wheels ride over

While below, she passes

Unlabored.

All along,

Her banks defining

Scenery

And the landscape of my existence.

The cottonwoods

Entrenched

Upon the shores

Ripple in the afternoon breeze

Ubiquitous and soothing.

Placidly, the mink

--- of secretive stock,

Pauses to consider his place.

The low groaning of a bullfrog

Echoing from a languid tributary

Speaks to deeper places

Than language dare utter.

And I, alone,

Totter on;

The uncertain newcomer,

Beset with schedules and lists,

Persistently unaware of my

Want, of my dire estate.

My occupied mind

Deaf

To the thrush’s liquid warble

And the looming voice

Of the Lord.

But wherever my duties

Take me

Patiently

            Patiently

                        She waits,

Her lessons learned over

Millennia, culled of the

Spirit who speaks

In whirlwinds and whispers;

Songs in the tongue

Of quivering boughs

And slow eddies, suspended

In time. Sweet praises raised

By the rushing of reeds,

The idling clouds,

And the nourishing air which

Fulfills the want of lungs

And preaches of the gift

Of moments given

Which cannot be stolen or

Returned by force of will.

Drab and muddy

Clear and clean

A voice,

Like one in the wilderness

Calling,

‘Repent,

            Repent,

Lay your burdens upon the green hillocks;

Your cares beside the lapping waters

And pass beneath the surface

Be filled forevermore.’