she loved the river

“Life is like the river, sometimes it sweeps you gently along and
 sometimes the rapids come out of nowhere.”―Emma Smith

she loved the river,
          the whispering, lisping river.
                    there skinny-dipped
                              under the curtain of its depths,
                                        when no one was around.
                              fish popping out huge eyes,
                    attracted by her nippled elegance
          and marvelled by her gently rippled dance.

she moved the river,
          the calming, balming river,
                    whose bubbles slipped
                              upward to transport exhaled breaths
                                        without a single sound,
                              ere blooming for the skies;
                    while, underneath the sweeping of her hands,
          coming awake, fine sleeping grains of sand.

she roved the river,
          mysterious, serious river.
                    cartwheeled and flipped
                              into the blue womb of the cave.
                                        the world outside long gone,
                              though she could not care less.
                    because the chalice of the aquafest
          became a palace for her perfect rest.

she got so lost in the river,
          the steepening, deepening river!
                    idyllic crypt.
                              should she sleep on and seek to save
                                        her breath until the dawn,
                              returning to caress
                    the ferns that waited at the water's edge
          refrain, with bated breath, their lyric pledge?

she overdosed on the river,
          the filling, killing river.
                    by seizure gripped,
                              interred inside her water grave,
                                        a silenced, mortal fawn.
                              no one could ever guess
                    that Jade, so agile in the river's cleft,
          could sleep, so fragile, of all life bereft.

© Copyright 2024 February 27
by Clyve A. Bowen♫