The River (continued)
Decending the towering cliffs,
the journey continues on;
a shroud of peacefulness begins its consumption
of societies man-made rationalizations,
letting the mind break free of civilization's bondage.
Freed of the days-to-dazed,
the senses tucked away in protective silence
begin to emerge with solomn wonderment
at a seemingly endless stretch of white beach
sculptured into forms of a wind's imagination.
Turning from the newly found appreciation,
I walk on, eyes ever watching
the water flowing towards me
for the knowns within;
the finned in life disturbed
or discarded treasures of distant pasts.
Ahead, the trees huddle close together
their safty in numbers
keeping a cautious distance
from the now quiet river
knowing in the spring coming
will rage from its present course
grasping all within its reach
only to wipe the slate clean.
One tree stands tall and large aroun
beckoning one to rest
in its blanket of leaves;
'Come, sit, and lean to me,
tomarrow, I may not be here for thee,
ponder your thoughts in good company,
for tomarrow
we may never see.'
In the distance
the sun begins to set
signaling the day
soon comes to rest,
over head, a heron
flies home to nest
and a beaver bids goodnight
snug in its den.
Looking back from the journey's end,
one more thought of my oldest friend;
when death's revenge knocks at my door
set my ashes free
in the wind when it blows
to mingle with the water as it flows
to nourish the trees as they grow
to be a part of this land
and my memories here,
to be closest to thee
my oldest friend.
Nakia (1984)
|
