she goes to the river
most mornings to watch and listen
to pray
she likes the soft ripple of waves
their song barely audible above
whispering leaves and rhythmic steps
of wanderers on the nearby gravel path
she brings bouquets from her garden
tied with wispy ribbons
or string bits she finds in the street
trees are gods she thinks
deserving of these quiet gifts
they take in talk and laughter
hear confessions
absorb human moanings and sighings
rearrange and purify
transform and lighten them
absolve
she knows
she brought her own
stowed them deep in a hollow
she owes her freedom to a tree
to the river flowing past
winding its way into the bay and out to sea
she goes to pay homage
drops her petals of gratitude
encircling the tree with blossoms
she is a pilgrim
she goes to the river most mornings
her river her tree her temple
and though she cannot yet swim
is still afraid of climbing
she will and she can~
