The weeping willows waves
With their withes in the wind;
The moss-grown hills sweep past,
Disordering emotions and splashes.
Leaning to the foot of a rocky cliff,
My raft runs rapidly in between
The boulders and sharp stones --
I have delivered myself over
Into the hands of Providence.
Rain tramples down the rosy mist
While lonesome cuckoo counts down
My time of threading through the rapids:
One after another, and then. . .
My raft and I make one falling stream.
I've been there; done that. Your poem reminds me of the time I did rafting thru the rapids in Montenegro, a truly wild experience. Needless to say, enjoyed your poem immensely.
Explore the mystery of how nature makes unexpected gifts of creative wonders to an unsuspecting caregiver one late night and early morning in southeastern Georgia, USA.
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