The river never slowed, <br />for serendipity or love. <br />They sat, a mile apart <br />on muddy ground, alive <br />and hoping for a sign <br />from Him, above <br />that would bring close <br />the portrait of plain art, <br />inside the hive <br />where drones make wine <br />to measure out a dose <br />well earned and truly owed. <br /> <br /> <br />She cried and let her tears <br />fall into raging waters; perhaps they died, <br />there was a hope of God-Almighty human fears <br />but she just sat there, waiting only for the tide. <br /> <br />The river gave its powers to the coming drought, <br />she stood and grabbed a sturdy stick of Norfolk pine, <br />they met at last and took a mighty walkabout, <br />and drank the contents of the wild strawberry wine. <br /> <br />He took her home then, on his back, onto his cot. <br />She smelled like licorice and spices from abroad. <br />It would not matter if the weather would turn hot <br />he knew that life itself was absolutely flawed. <br /> <br />A tired moon said his good-byes that very day, <br />there was some light still to illuminate the pair. <br />And there they stood inside the river's awesome clay, <br />he had his hands around her head. He loved her hair.<br /><br />Herbert Nehrlich<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/strawberry-wine/
