I once spoke to a river
Of accomplishment, achievement, passion,
And never did I become so ashamed
Of my unproductive feet and arms,
Hopelessly and relentlessly working for something
A mighty river can do itself.
Boasting of cloud covered valleys,
Having eaten my share of sweet cakes
And billowed off the coal pit,
I decided to see what
This river had created.
Trudging past colonies of mosquito and gnat
Past cow dotted farms and sewn leather mountains
Of tempest, village, murder
Churning mint waves against brownish banks
The river gave into the ocean.
Descending down creasing shores,
I asked the river different this time,
What had it felt.
And suddenly, as if the dead of winter,
It shut its mouth
Held on.
Me, the traveler?
Bow by sugary shores,
Staring at a face of creation but not feeling,
And set forth, aware of powers
We wield but don't pride.
