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~