The River

This is how a river loves:
shedding the linen fog of spring,
she opens herself
to the naked feet of men,
whispering what it means
to be made clean.

Step into my body of love,
the dust of living washed
from the soles of your feet.

Spinning new linen at dusk,
she repeats the words
she’s always known:

Having loved my own
who were in the world
I loved them to the end.

 

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