The River

This is how a river loves:shedding the linen fog of spring, she opens herself to the naked feet of men, whispering what it means to be made clean.

Step into my body of love, the dust of living washed from the soles of your feet.

Spinning new linen at dusk, she repeats the words she's always known:

Having loved my own who were in the world I loved them to the end.



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