I remember swimming against your current, only to find myself stuck, muscles not strong enough to make progress. I learned to swim with you.
I remember heading for your deepest channels, where the big ships travel, catching large wakes. Your cautions were always whispers. I learned to hear you.
I remember bumping into sandbars, frightened, thinking I had swum into a sea lion. You let me feel the gritty sand in my hands and upon realizing what it was, I stood upon those sandbars, acting like I was walking on water. No one noticed, except for you and me.
I’ve lain upon your shores in the heat, where your gritty beach stung my bare feet. I searched for the softest sand and a tall shrub to shade myself. Overheated, your kiss, a cooling, minute wade.
I sang songs about you as a child, taught to me in schools smelling of waxed floors. Songs of commerce, soul, and lives. Those melodies still swirl about you and me, as do their themes.
You’ve seen me reflect upon you with lover’s eyes from on top the gorge. Countless reflections. Your expression is so vast, few grasp its content. Yet, you and I know, all who look will reflect.
I’m sorry our dust has been kicked up high and settles down inside you. I no longer swim. I hope you can forgive me.
|Elan Mudrow on Summer Forest|
|bigskybuckeye on Summer Forest|
|Michelle Cole on Summer Forest|
|Appy Tales on Summer Forest|
|brookejcutler on Summer Forest|