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Sweet Old Red    (River)

I will go down to the river.
I will ride my rusty blue bike.
It is dark by the river.
The dense trees make a curtain to block out the light.
I will sit near the tombstones.
I will read to the old ones my young words.
I will listen to the living river groan,
The wind whispering and the chorus of birds.
Here I am someone.
Here I am at my best.
Here I sit happily alone.
In nature my tired heart sighs,
is at rest.
I forget all things, all others.
My thoughts come to life and begin to roam.
With the rush of the water pulsing in my ears,
I find I feel most at home.
I will go down to the twisting banks
of the river.
I will shout and listen for the echo
of strength my tender voice delivers,
the new voice I've gained since
coming here.
I will walk among the tangled tree snags,
then sit and linger.
I will stay and watch the sky turn to purple night through
my small fingers.
All becomes calm, becomes clear.
Here its true, no flowers grow but
the discarded plastic ones from long neglected graves.
Here its true, an old beaver uses
these same flowers
and tamps them into his sturdy dam,
like an old miser utilizing everything he
gathers and saves.
Each day
I will go down to the river.
For the muddy Red is good enough for me.
The Red may not be the great Mississippi,
But her pace and her peace is slow and easy,
So I sit down beside her and just be.

From an old childhood memory. This is a real river that flows north. One of very few that does.

Copyright January 29, 2002  Melissa A Howells Tilt-A-World  Meloo

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Sweet Old Red (River)



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