Dreams in the River

On the morning of solitude’s most sacred day,
Was to spend the wake on grassy banks of rivers clean.
Dazzled and seamless our mistress’ mighty flow,
Slowing still,
In paused back eddies of swirling endless froth.
Introspective of the last bend rendered,
The earlier falls,
The floating leaf;
Rocks that softly smoothed over in her passing;
A lasting sun’s ray permeates our being,
Eyes are closed,
Open to my goddess seeing.
All summers here and there,
Encased in one whole shared memory;
A gladly golden feeling.
The sound of all the rivers are announced as one,
Each gone and come and gone again,
Sequestered for this morning raw.
Today I think I saw:
Our dreams are in the river.
I slept then on the moistened soil,
Beneath bows bent down in blowing flaccid pose.
Here,
Lucid visions of mine youth crept by and behind,
Somnambulistic ghosts of seasons past and present.
I was them as fast they went,
Indented in the roaring winds of time.
Here in my rest,
I rolled through clouds and timbers best majestic.
Through fields of corn,
By brooks surrendered aside these fields,
And sometimes snapping turtles play,
A boy of prairie descent on his summer break,
Alone but never lonely,
Friendships found in trees and creatures all around abound,
Power that’s found by the stone that’s in his pocket,
Proud imagination rampant in his presence,
Senses present.
And so,
The morning went as this,
Until the mist and chill of afternoon awoke.
The river spoke to me this day,
Some say for dreams,
While others will speak of visions so bequeathed.
All I know is that I do say this,
As night time made me shiver,
There are these dreams that lay there in that river.