Twain

 

I feel called by tunes of the river’s lapping.

The steam and the boat on a course

Navigating dry bed and trees uprooted

Looking for the best route

Lit by the moon,

Seared by the sun.

Heaven can wait for me on this river run.

I feel pulled to tears, but none will fall.

Grief, let go.

What is this block –

An iron wall?

Can rust not weaken this ship of ore?

Anguish, wasting tears in horrid torrents,

Masked as laughter, carved as spears.

Courage, let me see the journey’s end,

The rowing done,

The mast stowed

In Halley’s light.

I feel called by tunes of the river’s lapping.

The steam and the boat on a course

Navigating dry bed and trees uprooted

Looking for the best route

Lit by the moon,

Seared by the sun.

Heaven can wait for me on this river run.

I feel pulled to tears, but none will fall.

Grief, let go.

What is this block –

An iron wall?

Can rust not weaken this ship of ore?

Anguish, wasting tears in horrid torrents,

Masked as laughter, carved as spears.

Courage, let me see the journey’s end,

The rowing done,

The mast stowed

In Halley’s light.

 

Copyright © 2017 Barbara Harris Leonhard

Image: https://humorinamerica.wordpress.com/2011/11/30/782/