The current is strong for this time of year,
and rain keeps falling,
grass no longer thirsts but glistens
drunk, vivid and erect
hopeful.
So I turn down that road again,
the one with the dirt path and charm
-->hoping for a covered bridge, open-ended shelter
But my selfish fingers u-turn, wheels spin tires
and mud my eyes.
As a traveler I have lost my passport here
more than once before.
the moon scrapes tides, our boats drift sarcastically...
and in these years when the sky is generous
so
am
i
No matter.
when the sun shows his high yellow face again
he will ask for my hand
and bridges will cease their magical allure
and dying grass will yield to fresh, less haughty seed.