There are rivers for each stage of life
as well as for every mood,
some run wild and full of strife
while others seem to slowly brood.

Like us they start with two joined parts
love for us and streams for them,
both begin with fits and starts
as if their births are a mere whim.

The rivers of my heart and home
spring from Blue Ridge mountain hollows
where they rush and laugh with foam,
their pools dimpled by evening swallows.

They wear bare the mountain's bones
with white rushes and water falls
and sing with bass and rumbling tones
where the blue grouse drums and calls.

Such were the rivers of my youth
when both my bones and will were strong,
well before I knew the truth
that decades are not really long.

The rush of waters and each year
slowed when the rivers reached the hills,
as falls end and waters clear
then slowly calm, losing their thrills.

This mix of both moves gently on,
a few mild rapids here and there,
whose songs barely stir the dawn
and become as scarce as non-gray hair.

Then as length and years grow long
we each become both wide and slow
and muted murmurs displace the song.
Neither one of us has far to go.

Now in sight : our destination,
eternity and boundless sea,
both bearing that last fascination.
On reaching them what will we be?