Robert W. Flournoy

MY RIVER

When I was young
my spring water sparkled and danced in the sun
and the stones in my bed were bright and polished.
I fell haphazardly forward, bounding downward,
inertia propelling me on gravity’s course, forward
toward the murky mouth and inevitable slow tug
of my waiting river.

I am broad and sweeping now, a creeping expanse
embracing companions of moss and debris,
inching onward,
languidly searching
for the tranquil lower ground
and the endless expanse of the deep sea.