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.