The Bridge

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
This poem is about an old bridge where my friends and I used to play.

Submitted: November 24, 2019

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Submitted: November 24, 2019

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The Bridge

There's a slight, cool breeze blowing.

The smell of clean, fresh air flowing.

The sweet fragrances of honeysuckle and pine,

bring only good things to mind.

Happy thoughts are blowing in the wind,

sad hearts, it does mend.

Remembering a time before the dye was cast,

of innocence lost and life moved too fast.

My feet fall lightly on the old wood planks,

some worn, some missing, some lying on the bank.

I stop in the middle to take a peak,

at the water below and the swollen, little creek.

There's fog in the air, creating a mist on my face.

This feels like my own, very special, magical place.

Everything new and starting new lives,

the creek is now melting it's ice.

It's unseasonably warm this time of year.

There won't be a harsh winter or snow drop tears.

I feel safe, and warm when I am here,

this bridge where we played year after year.

I love it here, there's peace to be found,

even when the bridge is falling down.

There's joy and goodness, a smile on my face.

I feel God's presence in this earthly place.

I don't want to leave, but know I have to,

to leave the place where I grew.

Maybe someday, I'll come back again,

stand here, close my eyes and remember when.

I walk over the bridge and up the steps,

and take with me it's joy, in my heart, where it is kept.

Remembering a time before the dye was cast,

of innocence lost and life moved too fast.


© Copyright 2020 jctolliver. All rights reserved.

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