I wish I could use
a mountain-climbing image:
it would describe the feeling
all hanging by my fingernails
over a gaping inevitability.

But I have never climbed a mountain
of any consequence; any attempt
to use a mountain-climbing image
would fall short, just as I would
fall long had I tried to climb a mountain.

Instead, I have to depend on water
flowing by in the river — that’s something
I do have in my poetic arsenal; I have
plenty of river experience.

Today, a group of us stood by the river
to commemorate the end of another summer.
The water was dark and rough, kind of
like the summer; yet there were times that the sun
etched the water in silver and deepest sapphire.
There were times the sky was heart-aching,
soul-kissing blue, and the trees impossible
reds, yellows, ochres — more than flames,
more than leaves, more than matter.

And so, I sit here in town, watching the water
flow by in memory. And I can see in the water
a lifetime of summers that have flowed by
as summers will flow by, inhabited by children
who drift by again and again, a little older each time,
a little wiser, each leaving a brief indentation
in the surface of the river that flows on
towards the city in the heart-aching,
soul-kissing blue.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
This entry was posted in aging, on poetry, On the process of Writing, Poetry, river poems, scapes, thoughts below ground and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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