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Journey
The mouth of the river may
be beautiful.
It doesn't remember the womb of its beginning.
It doesn't
look back to where it's been
or wonder who ahead of it polished the rough
stones.
be beautiful.
It doesn't remember the womb of its beginning.
It doesn't
look back to where it's been
or wonder who ahead of it polished the rough
stones.
It is following the
way
in its fullness,
now like satin,
now cresting,
waters meeting,
kindred
to travel gathered together,
all knowing it flows
one way,
shining or in shadows.
And me, the animal
I ride wants to drive
forward,
its longing not always my own,
overrunning its banks and
bounds,
edgeless, pilling along the way
way
in its fullness,
now like satin,
now cresting,
waters meeting,
kindred
to travel gathered together,
all knowing it flows
one way,
shining or in shadows.
And me, the animal
I ride wants to drive
forward,
its longing not always my own,
overrunning its banks and
bounds,
edgeless, pilling along the way
because, as I forget,
it
knows everything
is before it.
it
knows everything
is before it.
~ Linda Hogan
~
~
(Rounding the Human
Corners)
Corners)
Linda Hogan (born 1947) is a Native American poet, storyteller, academic, playwright, novelist, environmentalist and writer of short stories.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Linda_Hogan_(writer)
Web version: www.panhala.net/Archive/Journey_Hogan.html