Wednesday, June 19, 2013
AT THIS FLOOD OF SPRING
AT THIS FLOOD OF SPRING
At this river
I touch the flood
of Spring.
I do not know
the end of this,
nor how it begins:
the dead
and the living
swept along
the crested
plume of it,
the trouble
the muddied
loss, the loosened
hope
how it is
a song
that trembles
along
a torrential
edge
of things
we never expect
or fathom.
©Laurence Holden, 2013
Monday, June 3, 2013
EVERYTHING WE KNOW
EVERYTHING WE KNOW
Fingers
of coming light
trace Pine along the far ridge
untethered above the mist.
Just a chimera
drifting
in and out of sight,
in and out of existence, as if playing
with the idea of being
and not being. River too
does this,
but in her own way
taking everything with her
but never leaving. We too,
in our own way, believing,
unbelieving, hoping
and refusing hope, singing
and crying. I have not
spoken of such things
in a long while now. Could not,
my mouth stuffed with rocks
and sand, so much
not understood. I could
have drowned, not knowing
how mountains and rivers move,
rise and fall in an instant
here and now, for all
in the quick arrow
of light loosed
upon this world. Everything
we could not know
changes, yet remains the same.
©Laurence Holden, 2013
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)