Nothing remains stuck.
On the breath that expresses more than thoughts
to flow down valley
like a wind in Wailupe
that tickles the chimes in the Norfolk pines
rooted to a moment, despite movement.
There is a clearing
where solitude is revealing instruction
to a tangle of brush strokes
imparting light to the surface renewal.
In the metaphor of rivers there is no arrival,
only its illusion.
There’s a gentle loosening of leaves
expressing the value of paperweight
that does not incorporate words
but notes something of gravity to the motionless,
to those mired to the banks.
Though in their lines lies a vagrancy,
the realization that all are carried away eventually
by the wind and by the rain.
The river journey comes to its insatiable mouth,
infinitely consuming itself.
Can movement be a mirror on these surfaces?
To seize a half-formed image of oneself,
sped up, transparent,
as if on a current,
lifting the anchor you go with it.
Moving downstream to draw from the periphery
some sense of apprehension.
With a craft that compulsively fills the contours
with some semblance of direction,
overshadowed by the next bend
by further distance ill defined
in waterways that resemble the last.
Released from the grid,
the river was aided by floods,
while the sky slid by
on an infinite sheet of glass.
Poetry was like the passing clouds
that gather fragments of its brilliance,
before inspiration dissipates
before the rain precipitates
what needs to change and what can be saved,
what remains of glass shattered
into thousands of mutually arising patterns
interwoven in the aftermath
of another passage to sea.
yakskinpocketnotes 