will this river flow
the country’s culminated streams
connecting unseen mountain sources
to the ocean,
bringing dreams to distant dreams?
How long
will the water run
beneath this road turned into bridge,
beneath the feet
of all who pass from bank to bank
half grateful for this lifted street?
How long
will this stretch of street
in time remain
suspended shore to shifting shore
above the rise and sink of seasons,
of mountain trickle and ocean roar?
This river will
outlast us, all our lives combined
and every street along the way,
and even as I form these words,
I feel
the bridge begin to sway.
This bolted iron in the wind
is likely to outlast us too;
we may
grow old together, but
if time’s the measure we cannot do
what bridges do.
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