How does this gentle
water really work?
I mean, by swiftly
arcing over limbs
Of foliage, or
breathless teeming glints
of brown spontaneous
depths, can sooth the hurt
I felt before I strode
along your banks.
This river is my rambling
confidant.
It filters out the
minerals from the silt
As meditating, I fall
on thoughts withheld
And pierce my vision
through the surging sphinx
Until I, chance,
discern my murky mind.
So soft, the babbling
weep of lingering sound.
Bluebells lace the
rimples of your brow
As I do tread the
clefting of the plough
And know that
something hallowed yokes the ground.
How does this gentle
water really work?
I ask this as I mooch
about the ark
And notice how the
seasoned grain is me
With blood all spewing
into tiny trees
that litter all my
meaty bony garb.
This vain and timely life
span is a lark.
And all this temporary
discourse in the park
This aimless dynamo of
secret fire
Baking every insight
and desire
Lives beside this
elemental spark.
How does this gentle
water really work?
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