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The Stream

By Mary E. Adair

Outside my window lies the Mississippi stream,
Reflecting like silver the dusk's lofty gleam,
The tugs join with the current new ripples to form,
And all here inside is cozy and warm...
If troubles could flow down the stream of life,
As ripples raised by the winds of strife,
And Love could erase them with calming clasp,
Could we all hold joy within our grasp?
Or would we submerge it ... lock it down in the depths,
And forge only sorrow with our concepts?

And sometimes the river is near smooth as glass,
Peacefully bordered with shore and wild grass,
Birds flutter above and pass out of sight,
And morning inevitably is followed by night...
So orderly and pleasant the surface seems
Reminding me how we live in our dreams,
Before we awaken to face currents of our own,
Some that will make us worry, fret, and moan...
Would that they too would all take flight,
As the birds soaring by ... oh that they might!

But rivers are rivers and humans are not,
No matter how melodic the poem is wrought,
The parallel simply cannot be drawn
For we are not meant to be the current's pawn,
For humans dare to stand up and make decisions
And bring into existence our dearest visions,
Not flow rippleless through life 'til the day we die,
But to vibrantly experience our unchanneled right
To go where we wish, and do what we desire
Without banks to limit heights to which we aspire.

©April 15, 2000 Mary E. Adair  

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