The river is picking up speed as I age.
Perhaps I have stood on the bank too long,
collecting flowers, being careful of drowning.
I see the whorls, darkness, leaves turning under,
I see my son when he almost died.
I must walk in,
become wet with the rain in my heart,
litter the surface with petals of desire
for things to arrive or return,
let go the soft and settled bank.
Inside the river, there is no haste.
No comments:
Post a Comment