We Talk to the River

I have a fine-banked place

to release my pain,

on that river shore,

I think gone loved ones reflect the same—

with my good vision obscured

with rain like tears,

I sense strong memories

let them know my fears.

Why do some others often come here too?

For sure, it is not planned—

so strange, nature’s pull communes

with us near where we land.

Your favorite beer,

I pour it out,

the bubbles float down your old boat route,

somehow this helps me to remember you;

you smile big and wide,

and a laugh escapes free,

this helps me breathe again,

and your comfort’s warmth elates me.

Now that I am away,

I stop by less often than in the past,

since sometimes life gets busy

(the one thing in this life I can do without),

but I am hopeful now in a way

I have not been since before you were gone,

my tide is rising again in a thinning fog;

I may not be alright since I am still healing,

but I am no longer feeling empty,

nor worried my life purpose is still unmet,

or my approach to discovery so wrong.