Sunday, December 4, 2011

the cycle, repaired


Geese wake me, early morning,
as they fly to and from the Dan,
a river I know well.
Years ago they left its sandy islands,
their beaches,
polluted by our mills.
I saw them leave, joined
their protest against the rainbow
our river had become.
Now they trumpet their arrivals
and departures, daily,
just before the Crescent
stops. At times, on its narrowed
rails, I sail north,
cut across trails our geese 
reclaimed. I sense I travel
timeless then, as I return like them
to a river I missed, 
to the home it is to me.

                    B. Koplen 12/4/11

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