River poetry

I must speak of this pretty village,
On the meander of a great river;

every year the levee broke,
And the flood came, 
Washing away some,
And yet, making the land richer/fertile-

The memory of the flood
Was so ancient and sacred in the heart
Of the villagers that none
Complained, and it was the way
of life in that village-
The coming and going of the
flood,

(some were rumored to worship it's fury)

and I have known wise
men and women , who in their solitude
have compared, their lovers to this flood,

which made me wonder-

If some loves were different than
other loves, "of course they are",
she said,

"but I don't want such a
Love."