The Bridge


The Bridge

The dream was there again last night.  Spreading and rolling like fog in a wet warm winter.  It pooled its resources from visions upon visions in the subterranean chambers of mans spirit and whispered a picture of the one way bridge over moving muddy water.

The lower side, that place where sand meets reed and cattails yellow.  Where valley floods wrap their waters through the deep dark soil and make the earth richer.

The higher ridge dry and still, promises yet not seen where concrete and steel connect to a blue height that should be ecstasy.  Oaths of angels, promises given, the beginning, beyond gravity few call home.

In an instant most would rise, defend that road more chosen.  Find safe comfort in well known arms away from the bridge of last night’s slumber.  They have a gift while others suffer, speak worn phrases, stay to the valley away from high thunder.

The dream was there again last night.  Resilient and ageless like higher embraces spoken.  It kissed its grandeur from epoch within age in the trembling valley of man’s spirit and painted a revelation of the one way bridge over moving muddy water.

My first glimpse of the one way bridge which spanned the San Juan River near Fruitland, New Mexico, was in late summer of 1967.  I was six years old.  I have never forgotten that bridge.  Through the years as I have set my life on different high ground, the bridge always comes back to me in dreams.  Joseph is not here to guide me, so perhaps though the word written someone else can.  Shalom  – DS 11/16/2013

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