Sunday, October 28, 2012


The stream runs so low it splits
On either side of the stone
Of weighty obligations.
One stranded thought wants to dream
In the gold light and cool air
Of an empty afternoon
Like a girl braiding her hair.

The other strand is tangled
In the detritus washed down
By tempestuous events
Far upstream and long ago,
Lodged, irritatingly, here
Where their ugly rot threatens
To block up happy progress.

But head downstream just a bit,
The weight of the world insists,
And so long as there's water
Not gone entirely to ground,
Something will reach beyond this,
And something grow on its banks
To shade a sweet reunion.

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