Saturday, June 06, 2009

Returning to the River

Returning to the River

I wanted to return to that place,
the small boat club on the river
where my father’s Saturday sails
slapped their mooring in a gentle breeze.

To orient myself between home
and that low place, where sunsets
beam off the rippling water-
signaling the end of day.

I’ll listen for the train,
the iron line my father rode
all week into the sea of city
traffic and blinking lights.

Then I’ll drive the winding hills
like we did a thousand times.
I’ll point the car and let my spirit
find the way. But most of all

I want to return to the secret places
my father never knew, tucked high
in the old estates, land that was never
mine, but always felt like home.

There I’ll stand on the hilltops,
where the valley shimmers
like a bowl of silver, on the day
when I return to the river.

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