The morning air has been
whipped into frost to mend the
Barrenness of broken paths,
Sunned to death by the sum of
Our loveless days.
Reaching branches, sketched by
Dawn, break black and rise out of that
White and gray sea
Where farmers gather rivers
into veins to thin out
If you were shipwrecked on an island with a rising tide,
What would you choose?
A buoy that would keep you close to the shore,
While you basked around in the storm,
Or a wooden fleet without sails, leaving your fate
To be juggled by the varying constellations of
Stillness and chaos?
The white-veined river runs
Through ancient stems and
Webbing through our planet
Like frothy falls spinning lives
From autumn rain, and spitting leaves
Into black lakes.
It stops neither here nor there,
Mapping givers and takers
And leaving debris from storms
In its wake.
It has no destination other than itself,
And does not mind the eroding of mountains,
Or the taking of careless lives.
It leaves little for space and time,
And plunges happily back
To its own beginning after lapping
A life-time on its origin.
My courage sprang behind the night
When dawn let out her hair,
With the weavings of necessities
Making up her diadem.
Supposedly she came to mourn
The parting of my trust,
She twirled her locks around my heart
Like ribbons cut by time,
And sanctioned my surrendery
To the everlasting climb.