All Dreams Return to the River

Poetry

They cleared the shelves. When you left the dust billowed.

So many years of novels left them hip-deep in prose vapor.

Knowledge bled from every page, some curled and brown, and messages scrawled, inside the covers, spoke of a past,

yours.

Times when you wore short britches and knee-mud and fished the river dry of dreams.

Now the moon shines still, on our faces a hundred miles apart, and words spill from your door to where the river runs wild,

back home.

Don’t want to miss new stories? Click here to join Medium. Your membership fee directly supports Bridget Webber and other writers you read. You’ll also get full access to every story on Medium.