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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 87

For my father

I can see the river flow
from here out to the yard
And I know the river flows places
  I can never go
And I walk these rooms alone,
gazing at the garden

Some sail boats down empty streams
Eyes are wide and quiet
And their desperation leads
past desolated, dying scenes
of lifeless, leafless, lonely trees
while looking for the forest

If I could I would carry you
I promise you I would
Past the streams to the open sea
where life began and can begin again
and maybe love refound
  can echo down the hallways of time
And just so slightly change the past
It’s not impossible.
Is it?

  Diane Lubarsky