The Mukwonago River
where
arrowheads were found for many years.
The river is
a really big giver
of crappies; fishermen shed happy tears.
I’ve never walked
there, though I’ve been here years;
it’s for
other people, but not for me.
I smell it
when I go by and my leers
rival those
I have for a lake I see.
The deep,
wet odor, earthy and salty,
and the mist,
tickling and teasing my skin.
I resist the
pull as it calls to me.
It calls: come to me please, and please come in.
And I wonder if I will ever go;
the years I have left do not go by slow.
And I wonder if I will ever go;
the years I have left do not go by slow.
© Julianne
Carlile
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