Bridge, The

I once
as a young boy
stood on a little
wooden country bridge;
tip-toed to look at
the languid moving water

Tomorrow popped up -
the wind that had blown in
tore off a leaf from
a tall standing tree
roots entrenched
by the water's edge

and this leaf
wafted and fluttered
and glided into the
current below
taken bodily
where gravity pulls

and drifted upon the
wavelets lapping
and pushing
its severed self
far, far away into
the distance

I heard the crickets
and the cicadas
droning in the
afternoon sun;
those things could
ruin your ears!

and all the while
I gazed upon the
fallen leaf
hoping to spy on
what the future
promised downstream:

that if I let go
of whatever it was
that kept me there
feet dangling through
the rusted railing;
heart racing

would I wake up
and return to the
bustling world
unable to swim
against the current
rudely torn off

by Frederick Kesner

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