The Thick of It
I am distanced from the river
but a pace or two of fancy;
and could drift there any moment
just to trace symbols on the sand –
or launch a child’s raft.
Yet there is a barrier of sorts,
more ephemeral than stalwart,
but quite effective none the less
in keeping me on the creative path –
to ease the world’s pain.
It is much like a wild thicket,
so lushly and green in warm-time
and stark foreboding in fallow
that I stick to the questing trail –
of work still bedone.
For the wall of leaves sings to me
of awe and wonder and learning;
while the complex weave of living
murmur of mem’ries not put to rest –
a forging of tomorrow.
Either way I am reminded
that the river runs endlessly
from His Mountain to the Her Sea,
and soon again as mist and rain
like simple love in me.