Thursday evening we went to the river, to watch the sun set on the longest day of the year. And though the air was warm after a hot afternoon and the Solstice sky was filled with clouds rimmed in fire, when I bent to drag my fingers through the water it was icy cold to the touch.
There is snow still melting in the mountains, and here, in these first days of summer, our river carries memories of winter out to the ocean, from where it will return to us again on a frigid wind, at the next Solstice.
The river’s touch reminded me of this poem I wrote late one February, as the ice along the river banks began to break up:
Cold River
As winter loses grip and shards of ice break free to spin, languid in the current, this river speaks in creaks and groans, and tells us many things. Can you hear it? Does your heart still know the secret language? Can it hold the poem offered by this wise and ancient soul?
I hope the turning of the seasons finds you well,
~ Adam
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When I think of rivers, I think of their long and important history during the existence of man. Not a bad poem. I like some of the verses.
So lovely.