Rik George writes

The River

I watched the sun waltz on the river 
thinking of you and why you went. 
The ripples ran like melted silver. 
I bowed my head to make a wish. 
The river flowed westward, intent 
on the sea. The sun painted a flush 
on the waters as they ran. 
I turned homeward to the rooms 
where your feet left prints I washed 
away in anger. You are not in 
their emptiness, and I must come 
to terms with places empty of you. 
How strange: the river flows the same 
while I stumble on a road that’s new.

River Bluffs Sunrise -- Jeanne Mackenzie