The River

The River The river sings its sweet lament in ancient voice softly lowing, vibrant melodies subtly meant to plumb the depths of our knowing. Around each bend it curves, flowing onward toward its fated reunion with unkempt sea, wild and blowing; embracing briney communion. Its serpentine course scars the land in undulant brown profusion; shimmering gold in twilight's hand, a gift of nature's effusion. Pregnant spring plies it, unleashing tempest's turgid downpour to slake the lusty spate's thirst unceasing, leaving ravaged marl in its wake. Torrid summer's breath chars the soil and saps the river of its strength, but cool and sweet, the river's toil paints a green ribbon down its length. Demon winter glazes the earth, garbs the river in frigid gown, draws a pane of ice over its girth but fails to stay its flowing down. Since time out of mind, the river has carved canyons from stubborn stone and sought naught but to deliver its lifeblood back to heaven's home.