#WritcoPoemPrompt6
The river that flows down the hill,
Is never able to be a moment still,
The rocks and pebbles at it's edge,
Lie as steady as the dead,
As it goes and goes it thinks,
"can this be real?
So many past times, of all I can't possibly conceal
Oh, the dozens of children jumping off of that ledge
Into the lake while their Mom's just àshook their heads.
How many father son fishing lessons have taken place right through my tides and they have...