Splatters of Poetry

Wednesday River

Trees stand straight, leafless, erect
like yesterday's soldiers
too old for battle, too proud to walk away.
Beyond them the brown tangle
the twig-like mesh
bushes without leaves and
roots with no trees attached,
indistinguishable.
And further still the river
the Wednesday river.
Never in a hurry
always on her way
somewhere.
Always laughing at the young couples and
lonely old men
the only ones, anymore who
come to hear her stories
to see her wink in the thin winter sunlight
like the backs of a thousand tiny fish.
The children and the artists are gone, now.
Off to college, off to get married;
nobody writes poems when they're happy.
She lies forgotten,
oblivious
like an old book, or a grandmother
whose stories have grown worn and
tattered at the edges.
She moves on.

posted by Erin @ 6:27 PM