Without direction from the
soon-setting Sun, drawn not by the pull
of the Moon, it flows past murky shadows
shifting into place, and passes by the sweep of trees.
The river remains constant.
Showing itself, ripples and bubbles, only
when convenient. Beneath the frozen surface,
a flurry of activity within each body of water
it passes through.
Neither transient or untenable
it knows not whether it will end up in the sea,
or be channelled through tributaries
to a gentle stream, sparkling lake, or
come to rest in a stagnant swamp, eventually
seeping into the aquifer, or evaporating
and ending up as a puddle in a far-away city.
The cycle begins again.
The river does not know the power it contains,
yet continues to move.
There is no silence.
The stillness is never complete as we,
minute by day, year over year, seek purpose.
And balance. Under this Solstice,
the Sun shedding it’s grace for such little time,
traversing through to darker hours, as we are.
Or as we can,
in this semi-frozen state, craving comfort
which comes from removing ourselves
from the elements.
Man-made darkness, the shelter
in which we hide, or rest, or plot how
we will better face the day, and the year ahead.
Each of us is searching, or knowing, or
finding our ocean.
or transient. A natural rhythm, the planets revolving
as they should, each cycle, each pattern,
©2016 j.g. lewis