downstream past grassy banks and fallen trees,
through weirs of river stones and branches, caught
like rough objections to a fluid ease.
It’s not pellucid, nor the mind’s ideal—
or is it? Obstacles can make us wise;
perfection may be gauged by how you feel,
as beauty’s proven in beholders’ eyes.
I step into the river, running swift
and frothy, swirling, magnified by light;
it’s buoyant, though, providing flow and lift,
resistance furnishing the greater height.
And now I think my heart’s contrary moods—
each eddying pool, dark current, headstrong act—
aren’t merely detours and vicissitudes,
but purchase for a leaping, muscled pact.
No comments:
Post a Comment