Friday, November 17, 2017

The Covered Bridge 11-17-17


Still washing o'er and 'round the rocks,
the splashing rapids pass the fox.
They pass the beavers before dawn.
They pass the doe.  In time, the fawn.

The chipmunks work.  The 'possums too.
The river flows past me and you.
Time doesn't stop.  It knows not how
with covered bridge before us now.

The water moves, the river flows.
God makes it so.  That's how it goes.
The bridge we walk is like our birth -
A fresh red coat for what it's worth.

Like ol' homestead, the bridge is red,
but it seems brighter here instead.
Enjoying travels, springtime views -
no other roadway, we would choose.

The hewn-cut logs are under foot.
And all our faith in God, we put.
Each step we take, we hear the boards.
Experiences bring rewards.

Then walking past the eight by eights,
a calendar of days and dates,
they hold the roof that keeps us dry -
like summer rains as we pass by.

Then near the end, the autumn air -
brings me to tears to know we're there.
Life seems so fast- like rushing dream -
like splashing rapids of the stream.

As she steps off, I see her go.
Yet she's in Heaven.  That I know.
I pause some here as I recall -
our great relationship and all...

Those times together I still see -
forever always, her and me.
Love and devotion, God gave both.
Remember well, our Christian growth.

I see her bright and smiling face.
My mem'ries hold, as her embrace.
I hear her voice - fresh as the breeze.
Her songbirds echo still from trees.

The bridge, now old, weathered a bit.
And soon, we too, will step from it.
A moment's pause.  I see them too.
These colored leaves are much like you.

A blanket, soft of powdered snow -
will come one day - and this I know -
will cover road and cover bridge,
cover trees and winter's ridge.

The sunset's bright.  I see the moon.
So please be patient - see you soon.
The things of earth just keep changing -
but never God.  He's amazing.

Still washing o'er and 'round the rocks,
the splashing rapids pass the fox.
They pass the beavers before dawn.
They pass the doe.  In time, the fawn.

©2017 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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