the teardrop’s crossing

remember that time at Shenandoah,
then, when the miles of dirt stretching to the river
led us to a crossing worth a lending ear to,
the rushing waters gentle crashing on rocks, incessantly—

after I crossed the dam-maze of boulders,
on to the other side of the rapid stream,
you behind me, considering your own path,
I saw you choose mine and smiled for you—

she gave me a “nicely done”, the pretty lady
standing there, where I landed, next to a man
who, himself, seemed to consider a course
but unsure, as I smile to her and pass them by—

and I sit to wait in a simple moment’s victory
while you begin measuring your steps;
an honest man only lives without regrets,
as though it’s he who’ll write his history—

I arose to watch your descent from the high road,
onto fulfillment, wading a river of life with calm grimace—
and then we watched you slip only to recover,
and just with soaked shoes to spite the effort—

the man with the woman smirks then,
remarking how you “needed” my “shoes”,
and she shoots me a knowing glance,
how man measures a man, always down—

and though he’ll follow in his footsteps!
and listen to the trails of his words come alive,
like the twisting of the brooks and nettle themselves,
all through the soil and solid earth, every where.

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