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Jun 29, 2008

I don't know what to call this poem.....What would you name it?


A feather swirls point down,
The water below expects it,
But moves on any way.

She makes a right turn,
Just to bubble and swirl around a few stones and a small tree.
She quickly puts a mile behind her.
She calms and pulls herself together.

She comments to herself that it is a wonder that she has this much of herself to pull together,
Considering the lack of fain this month.
Rushing along she passes below old Johnson Bridge.
"The 1849's built that bridge,
But it was more like a 1849'er,
Mr. Johnson, the banker.
The beams had to be replaced last year.
I should know,
I'm the one that goes around them,
And who crashes into them.

"Good bye Bubbles."
"Good bye Johnson."
"Besides Bubbles, the others that pass by on a regular bases is Mr. Johnson and his grand kids,
They come by every Sunday afternoon to walk and pick flowers.
The flowers usually come from the meadow on the eastern side of me,
The town is to the west.(FYI)

"Meadow! I'm more than a meadow!
I'm Rose Park.
Come the 4th of July and New Year's,
I'm the most popular place in town."
"A Meadow indeed!"

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