A River of Stones
Bright promise beamed in adolescent eyes
in days before responsibility;
so many ways to understand a world,
that somehow, evaded current design.
Each tomorrow was a promise in three
syllables, a prayer upon saint’s lips.
No sun could harm our skin or alter plans
made under the eaves of an apple tree.
But dreams devolved into wishes wasted
before we ever realized, they’d died.
Bitterness was handed to our children,
before the cherished fruit was ever tasted.
Now withered dreams, that wail with hurts and moans
through scorching skies, push through rivers of stones.
© 7.15.2011 (tag prompt,title)