MEN AND RIVERS

There are rivers for each stage of life
as well as for 'most every mood.
Some run wild and full of strife
while others seem to slowly brood.

Like us, they start with two joined parts
love for us and streams for them.
Both begin with fits and starts
as if their birth were a mere whim.

The rivers of my heart and home
spring from Blue Ridge mountain hollows
where they laugh and rush with foam,
their pools dimpled by evening swallows.

They wear bare the mountains' bones
with white rapids and water falls
and sing with rumbling deep bass tones
where the blue grouse drums and calls.

Such were the rivers of my youth
when both my bones and will were strong,
well before I knew the truth
that decades are not really long.

The sprint of waters and each year
slows when the rivers reach the hills
as falls end and waters clear
then turn to riffles as in rills.

This midst of both moves gently on,
a few small rapids here and there
whose songs barely stir the dawn
and turn as scarce as old men's hair.

Then as length and years grow long
we each become both wide and slow
and muted murmurs displace song.
Neither one of us has far to go.

Now in sight, our destination
eternity and boundless sea
both bearing that last fascination
on reaching them what will we be?