River
That Never Ran
by Mary M. Brown
by Mary M. Brown
I
remember the river that never ran
beside
our house, the little boat we
never
owned, never rowed,
the
willows
that
never swayed, dogwoods
that
never bloomed. I remember
the
bedroom I never shared with a sister
I
never loved, the porch where we never
giggled
together until deep dusk
when
we never chased fireflies,
never
whispered secrets until dreams
drifted
toward dawn. I remember
a
sky that never held white clouds
that
billowed above a field
of violets
and
button bush that never took root
and
where the old dog we never named
Bligh
ran wild through the tall grass
that never grew.
I
remember the fence we never climbed,
the
little bridge at the end of the dirt road
we
never traveled, the way our granddad
never
held out his arms so we could come
running
to him, breathless and laughing
the
way we always never did,
the
way we
never
needed anything else, never
anything more.
From
Mary Brown: “I live and write in Anderson where I am retired
after teaching creative writing and literature at Indiana Wesleyan
University for thirty years.”