The Little Arkansas
By Philip Reede
Email: philipreede at jamessavery dot com
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February 28, 2008
A channel plows through the prairie,
Filled to its banks by rain.
It's waters are dark and murky,
And tell of farmers growing grain.
A tree grew on that rivers bank,
Those waters washed away it's soil.
It leaned to one side and slowly sank,
A new angle against gravity to toil.
Branches that yearned for the sky
Trace the waters surface now.
Anything that can crawl or fly
Finds a home in its bended bough.
The waters will soon wash the tree away,
Glad I was here to enjoy it today.
About the author:
I am one of that band of nomads, known as a military family member and as such currently reside in San Antonio, Texas. I am a graduate of the Pennsylvania State University where I received a BA in Art concentrating in metal, and learned of the Holy Trinity: Pathos; Logos; Ethos. I have criss crossed the nation for the last decade making a living as a jeweler, supporting my wife (an Air Force nurse) and documenting my travels in poetry, metal and water colors. This piece is for the river that flows past my former residence in Wichita, Kansas (a place not so far from Lake Wobegon, geographically or idealogically).
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