The Falls

The Falls

Broken fender, twig in line
And light blue sky with trees.
Green on blue and mountain fine
With warmth upon my knees.

Summer sun at winter time,
Snow still on the ground.
The place is set for water-mime
So I listen for the sound.

The sound is one of Bash Bish Falls
And now I tend to stare.
Everflowing echo calls
Of water in the air.

It makes me think of trees gone by
And people never seen.
It shouldn’t, but it makes me cry
To think of where I’ve been.

Now I sit with tears on face,
Knowing all the glory.
Now I sit without a trace
Of how to tell the story.

 

 

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 1978. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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