River Poem
By Carol Geyer
I am not a poet born, but am influenced by poetry.
When I read a poem, its graceful verses and delicate images
should trickle like water, slowly but surely increasing in speed, depth, and intensity.
Then, like a tiny rivulet, joining other rivulets,
It must sweep me down an imaginary stream,
like a canoe ride from a growing stream to a powerful river.
My inner view subtly expands.
I see shadowed banks with fuzzy pussy-willows and
Thick clumps of wafting brown reeds.
Nestled among them are gray brown mallards with dainty ducklings.
I spy sparkling dragonflies hovering over surging brown water.
All of these gentle images inspire me to continue to ride the rushing current of my imagination.
I won’t cheat myself by reluctantly closing the book and slipping the slim volume back I
to
its anonymous slot on a dusty bookshelf.
I need the precious gift of words on these fragile pages
to speak to me, to silently urge me to finish my voyage,
“Go with the flow”, and let them carry me where I have never been in life,
or even in my dreams.