Like a river after a month of rain,
deluge, your life rushes by, locations
and plot lines washing downstream, as you strain
to catch up to their teasing temptations.

The banks of the river cannot contain;
water seeping threatens your foundation.
Your shoes will get wet, or you could abstain
from wandering; it's your consolation

that your river overflows with good things
at least, knee-deep in opportunity.
You can stop, and see, what tomorrow brings;
or ride these rapids, with impunity.

Feel the warming air, the sun on your skin;
it's okay to savor, where you have been.

© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019


Popular posts from this blog

Letter to my future self

Still the Birds Sing