Sunday, July 26, 2009

Meditating Rivers

Photo by Stephani Schaefer, Los Molinos

—William Bronk

I fall asleep meditating rivers—
their flows, that gravity desires
their deep waters, determines their pull, that dams
do not stop them, that even there, behind
that solid wall, their weight downs them and, released,
they rage toward their easement as much as in natural
falls where they gush white in frantic slams
at rocks and tear at earth-banks because Earth
has lured them, Sun has energized.
In less
watered times, other places, quietly,
shallow streams sport more gently at the rocks
to speak the same urges or wind themselves
between like a single finger's slow caress.

I think of slowness, patience, indifference
to time, their endurance as, almost lost
at the bottom of sculptured ruins worn and dug
as canyons, their flow goes on, their intention still
the same as though never was ever enough, though it is.

And my mind meanders in grassy, flatter lands;
in barely perceptible flow, I fall asleep.