March Poems, No. 12

Oaks by the rivers
Caress the arms
Of the river
That circle their roots.
 
I sit by a river,
Wishing I were an oak
So the lips of water
Would kiss my roots.
 
But I am not wood,.
I'm unloved flesh,
And I have no roots,
So I never stay still in one place,
 
And feel the soft fingers
Of water touching me..


Copyright © Duane Locke

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