A Little Place Called the River
foraging pieces of myself
wu wei whispers to me to be like
a little place called the river
a sacred place calling me home
where my troubles flow downstream and
dreams grow bankside like fleabane
a styptic to all the bleeding wounds
of daytime and I can forage all the
lost pieces of me and put myself
together again for the first time
in this life but not the first time
by this little place called the river
About the Creator
R.C. Taylor
I write to invoke, to process, to honor, to resurrect, and—sometimes—to grieve but, above all, I write to be free.
Follow along for stories about a little bit of everything (i.e. nostalgia and other affairs of the heart).
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Comments (1)
I love the image of the river as a sacred place of restoration and healing. Your poem shyly reveals a dreamlike beauty and haven from the troubles of our day to day lives.