You’re on the road
and searching for that vein
known as the Mother Lode. . .

And, if its hid vicinity you find,
and the gold has not yet all been mined,

a freezing river
you must enter
with a sloping pan
and try your luck as best you can.

That done,
go on,
as you will,
if you must, descend or climb a hill.

And, if toward that effort,
yourself too much you have to goad,
then chance an easy stride across the open plain
and seek whatever ventures
THAT shall hold.

This entry was posted in Medium Length Poems, Poetry and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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