September 30th, 2013 | Posted by Lee
The River My River
The place I call home is not where I was born
Mark A. Forsyth July, 2010
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But it calls to me in primordial song that weaves
Through time and mind, and ten thousand years of
Life and ancestry tells me I belong.
This river with its siren call, its islands, rocks, and
Trees, its history longer than time created all, and
I have all of these, but more so they have me.
This river, it’s as if I’ve seen it somewhere before,
Standing, waiting at the door of my consciousness
Until I open up, filling my life as it fills its course to the sea.
There were those who possessed the place by
Living in it close to nature’s way, but others came with
Power to sway, I can’t imagine what they saw to deny
The fact, to defy the law, to change the way the river flows
The extent of which no one yet knows.
I think at times I can hear the river still sing
And if I could, I would tell it that I am still listening.
I am one with it. I do not hold myself above it but
Rather I do love it. There are things that do not
Require me to tell. The River knows.
This river, my river, knowing me before
I was born, bears me to my fate as my life unfolds
And the river still flows.
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