that river

the scattered remnants
of winter passed
seem so disorganized:
broken shells,
wasted seed pods,
last year's leaves, now brown,
and all the plans,
unmade, some
and others waylaid,
stunned by the ever-present
ticking
and the grains falling
in obedience to
an unbreakable law;
life is that river,
never visited twice,
sometimes like a bath,
sometimes cold as ice,
and plans and dreams
risen and fallen,
float by, disorganized,
when I think of you.



March 8, 2009.

Copyright © 2009, Ricky A. Pursley. All rights reserved.