There was power in its name,
this river that was really nothing
more than a creek with brackish water
and tall weeds tangled together
like teenage boys learning to fight
and desperate to find hold on muddy banks

Everything in this small town
was colored in those same brown hues
dull, lifeless, gritty
Old mills long since abandoned
stood guard, broken windows
locked in silent screams

So ingrained in the ways of this place,
children splashed in stagnant pools
choked with vegetation
and old men gathered to fish,
knowing nothing would ever bite
It was always the same

It was always the same
teetering on the edge
of failure and glory days
Some remembered a better time
and those who forgot only had to look
The bridge was still there

Red, vibrant, somehow elegant
it crossed the creek where
waters ran deep and fast
It sang
It danced
It glorified

Its name was Hope
Kind of beautiful, don’t you think?

photo: Flickr
prompts:  #aprpad, #napowrimo, Indiana Humanities/Kevin McKelvey