Down at the river

Down at the river where the water runs cool

that gypsy reclines in her love of you

gone now like the pebbles thrown in one by one

and the sink of each day’s so beautiful sun. 

She remembers the ripples and how they flowed

outward, outward, until her face glowed

and how that light in the dark of her life

made everything be completely alright.

That was then but now after the fact

that bubble of love lies dormant and flat

and lives within the depths of her soul

with no conceivable life of its own.

She gathers more pebbles, awaits a new day,

but the call of the wild distinct in its way

makes her know to lighten her load

and set forth again on a new road.

But there in the fields where the gypsies roam free

there are no roads on which she can flee

but she moves, she does, until the sun sets

and she joins that bubble in heavenly rest!