Patricia Prime

On My Way to the Sea

The wind sweeps through the willows and the river seems to call my name…. It's possible, I sigh, to find now in my seventh decade that I am hollow. I could be picked up by that gust and blown away like dust. It's conceivable too that were I to move and walk along the river bank onto the dancing sand I might be gathered up by a black-winged gull and ride like a princess out to sea and back.

sailing
beneath the bridge
a paper boat