The Water
Published in
1 min readMay 9, 2018
The water is moving in mystery,
and on a rainbow splice, some skitterbug
slides, on a slick rail line, whooshing,
gushing, here the whitewater churns,
and the sunlight burns, and my notes
in a bunch, fly from my lap on a wind.
The water is life and death, birth and burial,
the light can penetrate it, warm it,
and the chill which spills off in mists
can ease perambulations, on rubber tires
inflated, bobbing like driftwood on its current
no righteous fear of water moccasins to mind.
