An elderly woman sits above a sandstone canyon,
looking at the moon, in the shape of a cow’s horn.
Thin and silver, its rests behind clouds.
She deserted her home, before her children arrived
to haul her away to the rest home.
Looking into the darkness of cottonwoods below,
She listens to the tireless flow of the river,
traversing an ageless path towards the sea.
Her own children betrayed her.
They ignored her dreams,
with their busy cell-phone lives.
This canyon overlaps her age,
or the wrinkles of her skin.
Her mind became wise
from listening to the wind.
She sings a lullaby, she used to
sing her children to sleep.
Now she sings softly to the sandstone canyon.
Her rusty Studebaker is parked
near the scenic overlook sign.
She wants the silence and beauty, one last time?
before those blind bats take her away,
to the place you go to die, a junk yard,
where society dumps your useless days.
They forget to acknowledge your long journey.
Nobody listens to the
Deepness of Rivers anymore…