morning poem #2, February 11, 2016

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The river aches in winter

Gravity and, what’s more,

Its very spirit

Pushing against the hard ice.

Like all flesh

It yearns for freedom.

Its white cover a prison

Groaning as it tightens and loosens

In light and in darkness

Like tectonic plates.

It yearns, like us,  for that which it does not know

And to be barefoot in spring

And to thunder over boulders

And glide like a magic carpet

Over the miles of clean sand

 

Copyright 2016

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