Come And Walk The Plank - Poem by Connie Yost
Their live a few, who, wearing shoes,
Must walk the weathered plank;
A nine foot board of knotty pine,
Which bridges bank to bank.
A steady stride, it takes to cross,
A frost does make it slick;
One slip will send a skidding boot,
Six inches to the crick.
In wintertime it isn't there,
To inexperienced eyes;
Since muffled trundling can be heard,
We pause and fantasize.
When ice and snow give up and go,
There comes a tidal flush;
And all at once the bridge is free,
Of overwhelming slush.
The warming sun brings out the green,
In springtime garden lot;
And nearly every color seen,
Lives near the crossing spot.
Outspoken tulips lead the reds,
Grape hyacinths do the blue;
The pinks and purples nod their heads,
As all the yellows do.
So often now I walk the plank,
The luscious meadow thrives;
'Tis there a young doe simply waits,
Until her time arrives.
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