The St. Johns River Poem

The river’s a general,
So stern and final,
That there’s no denial,
The current whips
Commanding ships.

The river’s a chisel,
Carving rocks and hills,
Working like hundreds of
Power drills.

The river’s a flying seed,
Flowing through grass and weed,
Always free,
Sometimes gliding by me.

The river’s a nursery,
Harboring plants and fish,
Trying to grant every wish,
Watching them grow,
Ever so slow

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