The River
The river remembers
When the first man came to drink,
And the ice cold April melt
Of a heavy March snow
That fell a century ago.
It was a narrow, struggling stream
Searching for its way between the hills.
The old river knows everything.
It is full of suffering; toppling
And gnawing at the bedrock.
Its’ pummeled banks are punished
With uncountable raindrops
Upon raindrops.
My oar trudges the haunted water.
The old river holds many things,
Dead branches, bones and shadows.
Silent creatures dwell in its’ dark swirls.
It holds the misplaced things,
Ray-Bans, fishing lures and flip-flops.
The river is afflicted as a woman’s heart;
Keeping its’ secrets in the deep
Cold basement of the underneath.
It holds many tears
And wayward spirits that loom
On sleepy layers of river mist.
My oar trudges the turbulent tears.
A rushing torment carries them away.
The old river flows on and on,
Pushing its’ burden toward the sea,
And still the river remains.
Copyright © Tammy Swank | Year Posted 2016
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