The river is flowing
like a haiku
mouths of glaciers.
I run the whitewater
slosh softly over the haystacks
like my boat has supple hips
and this is flamenco.
I didn’t know I would need to be baptized
this many times
in such rapid succession
for my tiny sins against
the heaving wings of birds
So I run the river
to make up
for everything I never knew would come.
we are born to the rhythm
but water is mayhem
the beating drums of bliss
a thousand thirsts gulping prayers
like open hands.
[river runner hoop earrings ::: all sterling]
This is the human voice sailing
rising up in trembling echoes to dash against sky, rock and lake in graceful curves.
This is the arc of beautifying. That broadness within that comes
with letting go and reaching out.
There is expansion here, like the push and pull of lungs, the testing of space, the fullness of time.
With the rising of the sun, and the going down of the same, the unfurling of soulscape
the whispering of a Holy Name.
All around me, hands are casting stars.
The water is burning.
My voice has foundered.
Praise is the silent dip of a paddle in water
navigation by starlight and aurora
the spin of a compass needle
the prickle of night sky on skin
cold hands in a sleet storm
gripping gunwales with white fingers
that deep bed of moss I called home.
I am birch, peeling on the surface, and jack pine (the only release is fire).
I am stabbed with ice.
Why use words when a careful trill in sweet, melodic intervals heaves with truth.
When the ice breaks up,
will you sing me home?
I could rest