A short walk north from the Beaver Pond,
The towpath comes upon the river
Giving herself over to the view
In a gracious bend.
There an old gray man used to sit
On his little tricycle with its tiny flag,
And every time I passed by
He would raise his hand
And nod — a sound-distant monarch
Of that one exclusive place,
Relaxedly taking in
The vista’s reposeful awe
And the quietest of jolts
As the river’s rolling flow
Went on carrying away
And minutely cleansing
His maladies and angsts.
And every time he came,
I knew his spirit drove deeper
And deeper still its mooring roots.
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