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Every day I go to the river,
waiting and watching for you.

I sing the songs that you taught me
from the silent village of Chang-yo-sen.
A nd I a bride in a thousand ways
still hold your blue plums in my arms.

great marsh

by mary ann shriver

A LONELY PENINSULA jutting out into the Little Choptank River,
Great Marsh, presents a scene of complete emptiness. A few
scraggly bushes, laboring through drought and flood, are scattered
about the barren tableland. Battered boats, the pride of their day,
are laid to rest on the sun-cracked clay. A scrawny pine tree refuses,
to surrender to the ages as it courageously battles the fierce north
wind. Driftwood, after traveling from afar, has come to rest and be
content with its sad surroundings.

Strong winds whip defiantly across the silent expanse, failing to,
attain even a slight response from the dormant domain. The tides
wash in and out, never tiring, never ceasing, never failing to return.
The blazing sun shines with a glaring eye upon the sleeping area, but
still it fails to waken. At night the moon casts its mournful glow upon
the silent pebbles and desolate beach.

The days and nights come and go, the sun rises and sets, the moon
follows its fixed pattern, but the tides never depart. They consistently
pound the beaches in a never-ending monotony. A wave, with its long
fingers, takes a greedy bite of land and begins its outward journey.

Great Marsh, however, is not dead; it is only waiting-waiting
for the day when it wiU join, in melancholy harmony, the kingdom
of the sea.

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