A River

My brother was married this Fall in Sun Valley, Idaho. I wrote a short poem for the occasion in the style of Ernest Hemingway, a resident of Sun Valley and favorite of mine. Merry Christmas everyone.

A man and a woman stood by a river.   “Where does it lead?” the woman asked.  The man looked far to the West.  He could see only the bright spots where the bends caught the morning sun.  “I don’t know,” said the man.  “But I would like to see.  I will build a raft if you will come with me.”  And the man built a sturdy raft.  He tested it in the shallows, and when he was satisfied, he reached out.  The woman took his hand, and stepped on.  

A man and a woman journeyed the waters of time.  The banks widened with the flush of infant creeks.  Summer brought slow water and memories and they gained little distance.   Winter loosed the cold rains, and snags tore at their lashings.  “I wish I could build another raft,” the man said.  “But I’m older now, and we’re past the good timber.”  “I love you,” answered the woman.  And she fastened the beams tight with shards of her dress and locks of her hair.  White flowers lined the shores of another Spring. 

A man and a woman stood in starlit sand where a river mixed with a purple sea.  The moon rose and cast a ribbon of light across the depths before them.  “Where does it lead?” the woman asked.  “I’ve only dreamt of such places,” said the man.  “But you were with me in those dreams.”  “I’m with you now,” the woman said.  “And I, you,” the man answered.  

And he pulled the raft from the shallows into the waves, and satisfied, reached out.

The woman took his hand.

M. Richardson (2022)