The Quiet River
I remember
my feet stretched into the cold,
dirty water back home,
mud swirling
between each toe,
alone with singular
thoughts,
none of them
uninvited.
But without
that intrusion,
without dark night
under the melting,
hot moon,
mystery and fear,
bitter wine and cigar,
freedom of the naïve,
I would have known
none of you,
and never sought your
forgiveness
before the sun rose.
I arrive today
between
the tempests,
a modest look
at the mirror,
quiet again, nothing more.
And in that
quiet way,
a worker,
a father, believer,
and friend,
I approach
the eternal questions,
the river only a memory now,
and still,
it is present,
with all of those questions and answers
beneath my feet,
when I was alone,
no voice interrupting
my late night tv dinners
by the streams.
Copyright © John Byrd | Year Posted 2016
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