The Mukwonago River

I drive by 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.

© Julianne Carlile