To get across a life it's bridges we build,
span the light of our waking days
with alliances, compromises,
negotiate our walking routes,
cut avenues through the undergrowth.
These hours are lush like vegetation,
alive and drinking the succulent rains
that swell the raging rapids of desire,
the swirl and boil of racing, constant hearts.
These bridges can be made of ancient stone,
a huge suspension wrought of iron and steel
or merely a plank placed across a stream.
All have two purposes; to set us free,
so we can feel the joy of coming home.
Categorized as Poems

By Arthur Richardson

Very part time poem maker. Retired from paid work.


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