Wednesday, June 08, 2022
THE RIVER RUSHES
The river rushes,
The last rains of spring.
A rose bud in my hand
Opens;
Its petals fall to the ground.
This Moment—
A clod of earth
Between my fingers,
Crumbling to dust.
I brush it off,
And reach out
For the next touch.
Springtime
To summer sunlight.
I am that Light;
And I am the dust
Returning to the Earth.
Diane Shavelson (~1999)
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2 comments:
Excellent poem BTW!
Diane, your gifts of deep feeling and connection speak to me so clearly through the music of your poems. Thank you, dearest. Love, Audrey
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