The Mississippi

I meet with her each morn.
As she glides beside me
I sense her mood.
Some dawns she fumes in fog,
others she glistens in glee,
yet others she tumbles in turmoil.

Time alters my days
seldom I see her
and then
my path leads to her again.
She greets me with glory,
sunlight dances upon her face.
Joy to my soul
from her ancient waters.

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Through Winter Windows

Trace of footfalls pierce glistening white, tokens of travellers. Bygone origins, trivial destinations. Blinding reflections as icy air sneaks through unseen fissures. Warmth beckons and beauty is abandoned.

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Faded pages whisper of the woman who bore me. They whisper her heart, her dreams, her cares. I read and strain and caress the whispers.

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In my place between wake and slumber exists a platform, a waiting spot for the dream train. Weathered wood planks roughened by time and elements joined by rust crusted square spikes. Wind whispering, stars shining, no covering in sight. Ancient iron tracks stretch from horizon to beyond beckoning the dream train. On a night my mind’s self reposes there, labors, worries, and joys jumbled in thought until I board the dream train.

Nana's Pen

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The Mississippi

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