By Greg Spencer
On the banks of the Guadalupe River,
limestone borders like butter-sticks
leave the water a dusty teal.
Only pecan trees can withstand
the frequent floods, their taproots
anchored deep, their bases wide
as tiny ships, a non-floating flotilla
in single file along the tempestuous shore,
a steady expedition sailing securely in place.
As I listen in the current stillness,
I sink down my roots too so that
I am ready for the coming storm.
Greg Spencer has taught communication studies at Westmont for over thirty years. He has written five books, including Awakening the Quieter Virtues and Reframing the Soul. Next up is a semi-autobiographical novel called Boomer Boy. He loves being married. He and Janet have six grandchildren, all of whom know that the secret word is binka-bonka. Also by this poet: "Like So Many Bananas" and "I Watched a Poet Writing with Mystery in His Eyes"