(I’m afraid this is what happens when you allow the muse to spin into a blur.)
.
Rivers run
they do not walk
they crest a dam
and do not talk
just smoothing rocks
and rocking banks
in curving stones
and filling lakes
with bubbled lights
and gillied fishes
feeding wells
and granting wishes
silver curved
pastoral scenes
in flows of bold
through forest greens
and wearing blue
borrowed from the sky
where falling water
dragons fly
in grassy hair
and clover pops
through sunny glare
and mossy tops
the river
knows
its way.
.
© 2012 Betty Hayes Albright
