Tuesday, May 14, 2013

V. 2, #47: May 14, 2013

It doesn't bother me if no one reads
my scribblings here, these wayward drops of ink
I scatter heedlessly; I hardly think
such service one that any stranger needs.

This wordy stream might bear some specks of gold
that, if I'm lucky, settle in my pan,
but more wash past. I do the best I can;
The water's shallow here, muddy, and cold.

There was a time when, screaming myself hoarse,
I splashed and floundered, desperate to be praised
by all who passed. But now I am content
calmly to watch the river take its course,
kneel down beside it, quietly amazed,
and cup it in my hands, a sacrament.


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