©July 1998 by Spring
Those early morning walks to greet the dawning of the day.
The path that has felt your footfalls so many times...
chilled mornings, quiet reflections.
Alone and in communion with this gentle river...
sitting on haunches and watching its quiet flow.
To look deep into the moving currents...
and wonder what answers lie there but for the asking.
To dip your hand into the curling waters...
and wonder what part of its journey you have altered.
Waters that run far - much like the spirit of your soul.
An inlet blanketed with the beauty of wild violets.
You stoop to pick a handful - one by one you lay them in your hand...
much like the matchsticks in that little wooden box.
And are you not like the lore of that little flower...
modest and shy wanting to be held...
much like that cluster of purple crowns sitting in your hand.
Momentary images of a soul that toys and flirts with something
deep inside - nameless and faceless.
And does she know of those late night yearnings,
those walks deep into the night...
two naked women, legs tightly wrapped to hold each other tight.
Does she know what she has claimed and taken as her own?
Morning reflections and that gnawing question - "Can it ever be?"
One last look at the river that again has failed to give me answers...
but whispers back..."the answers are deep inside."
You walk back with the remembrances of that walk -
twelve little violets sitting in your hand.
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