This was the river where I hid 

beneath vines draping muddy banks  

as my big sister yelled to hurry up.  

On the way down the gravel path,  

we drank the sweet syrup  

from bunches of honey suckles.  

This was the river where my bare feet burned 

on the hot metal bridge.  

We watched the sinking sun,  

sitting on rocks as the water changed colors. 

We picked bitter black berries 

where first kisses brushed our lips,  

where we waddled across thin ice on rare snow days.  

This was the river where I lived 

how I wish to spend the rest of my time. 

This was the river that was mine,  

where adventure bloomed in familiarity 

and here I grew,  

but still knew  

this ever-vital river would be different  

than the one in my mind— 

a fresh path of racing water before me  

when I’d walk back down that gravel path.