Waterway
"You drown not by falling in a river, but by staying submerged in it.”
A gentle mist
billows above the man-made pond
that spawns a rippling
sorrel-dusky brook
that ebbs and widens as it becomes
a river.
The runnel is dark rust colors,
it is restful but unquiet,
as its flow
softly murmers.
The tributary sits next to a parking lot.
A car's yellow-
white headlights
are bright orbs six feet
above the rivulet;
the lights
penetrate the early morning
as two approaching comets...
Hot water
pours into the tooth colored tub,
it rises;
Irish feet
with puffy soft ankles
step into the bath,
the knees bend
as the hands grasp the tub's sides-
she plops heavily
into the bathwater,
she thinks that the thud disturbs
the tenants below...
never a sound from them.
Her legs curl in Indian style,
the warmth comforts...
The river, yes, is restful;
and twisted, bent branches of trees,
thin, small and dove brown,
adorn the dirt banks,
reach over the rill-
they are knowing spectators...
and she soaks,
and she becomes cleaner;
she levitates, like the aurora's brume...
The river winds
throughout the towns and cities in which she walks, before the sea captures...
it is in some places
shallow, she can see the sandy bottom
is the tint of sunshine;
the river
seems to always be near her...
and the river brings her home.
January 1, 2022
Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2022
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