Deluge, banks over run
fields flood
nothing is recognizable.
Come the next day
the river recedes
stirred, full
thick with earth’s sediment
carrying downstream
remnants of life.
The water settles
and finds the bank again.
One wonders what happened.
It rained. And it will rain again.
That is the way of it.
-
Predictions are useless.
The river flows
in abundance and scarcity.
Or not at all
but comes to a dry bed.
Isn’t that rare?
It is.
It is a river
because it flows.
That is its nature.
One can sit on the bank
and admire it.
One can float it swim it drown in it.
What does it care?
-
The river is a conveyance.
By means natural
or not
a link is afforded
between this docking and that.
Goods and services
wares to be traded
folk to embark and disembark
letters to be delivered
all find the river available.
Avail yourself.
Do not fret that it will suddenly
come to an end.
Relish that it doesn’t.
-
The river is a metaphor
for what cannot be simply said.
What arid culture
lacks a river tale?
What shaman does not invoke
the river demon?
I have tried to use the river
as a metaphor.
That it flows, that it is a conveyance
that it is a link.
What more can I say?
Can the metaphor be more clear?
The river says I am here, you are there.
We have the river.
Hanque O . . .
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/river-of-words-sketch/
