Bear in the river.
I am too old to sing these songs again,
the old bear thought to himself,
wishing he was wrong.
He tried hard to remember the wise things
he had learned in his life;
at least one wise thing.
He tried very hard. Mostly without success.
Instead he thought of her often, each day,
each hour; sometimes each breath.
He could not conceive of too much of her.
Would that the world be made in her image,
and he the seas, and sky and clouds to
embrace and delight each borrowed breath.
It pleased the old bear to have these thoughts.
In time he came to know that his heart was able
to embrace loving, and he gave up resisting,
and let the wind blow down from the high valleys
again, let the fish play in the river without
his gaze to guide them.
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