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I've spanned these banks for many years,
made evident in the rusty tin adorning my roof 
My sides are scarred , colors been stripped
from angry storms through hundreds of seasons.

My river bed ran dry back in late October
then Winter snows frosted my planks 
but I was still fit for anyone crossing over
from one side to the other of the Kanawha River.

Come Spring, rushing water will flow under me
splashing over rocks as it rushes to the sea.
Bird droppings will build along each window sill
when nest-building robins arrive in flocks.

People walk across my wooden floor
some hesitate before taking each step 
for my trusses tend to creak now and then
and I swell in places;   curses of growing old.

I've been crossed by deer, hoofed by cows, 
wheeled over by bicycle's and horse-drawn buggies. 
They were all kinder than the smelly fumes spread
by those disrespectful autos that never slow down.

My weathered brows face North and South
making me a tunnel for bold Nor'easters
that swiftly tear through me and chip my paint.
I like to think it enhances my pastoral character.

I might be 'rickety,' but if you call me 'shabby'
that rumbling you hear will be me grumbling.
I'm proud of the state I'm in, physically sound 
and geographically, two miles outside of town.

As long as I can stand on my supporting piers
I'll relive memories made beneath my roof.
A covered bridge spans more than the waters
of the gentle river where life flows free beneath me.


August 25, 2017

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