The River

The River

Bouncing over rocks,

The river moves in rhythm

Pushing obstacles out of the way,

While remnants float at the sidelines.

Silent, these bruised artifacts slowly drift—

Downward they go, lost and alone

Forever roaming far away from home,

As memory fades to black.

The river does not apologize

Nor make exceptions, but

Runs its course, rushing as

If it is ruled by time,

And ever-increasing rapids ensure

The impending drop—

As whitewater gurgle

Bends us through life.

Copyright2012©CIacovetti