A flow we seek to capture,
bridge or channel, yet cannot confine.
Lithe as mercury, slipping fingers,
it is held in brush-stroked cloud
and then let fall, rattling on rooftops.
Pools, unstirred, collect
the tension of drip, drip droplets:
mirror-flat, refract our point of view,
reveal all kinds of surface.
Of running water, folklore says
that no enchantment can survive it.
To know the end you go to, be the stream,
not a stick that’s spun at source.
Ride the impulsive rapids to middle-age
meandering, no cataracts in sight.
At the delta of days, silt-laden
reach the surf; then fathomless beyond
swim until you see no land.