It’s a raging river once,
A placid pond another moment;
Within its universe it runs,
Its energy never fully spent.
At times the cry of despair,
At times it is of danger a flirt,
At times unwilling for the smallest dare.
‘Tis without shape or form,
But it can touch as a finger can,
Leave in its wake a spidery worm
That new thoughts breed and fan.
And rapids with white froth,
And rivers that flood with pride,
And lakes too deep for simple truth.
Turning to a muddy sea the next,
Expectations dashed like a boat sans rope
Floundering as if a witch had vex’t.
Wondering if dreams were only dreams;
The ends of a life are in its props,
The means that are the strongest beams.
As the sea becomes a shadowy river,
A ray of hope peeks through the surface –
Am I really a bit of floatsam forever,
Or is this of spring an autumn’s preface?
And in each soul something special –
Then, I ask thee why we don’t wonder
If what we call special is really farcical?
Life and its soul seem to be swirling waters,
Success and failure its currents and texture –
Though it is in tastelessness that its purity caters,
It is variety that becomes its brightest fixture.
They give it the unknowns we need,
For between birth and death is joy and strife,
Each occasion for a new thought a fledgling seed.
2nd Mar, 2007