Usually, it never starts with a dream
The dream meticulously sculpted into an expectation
So perfect that the cries of ecstasy roar along the river
Erasing any hope of stillness that might have been there
Had nothing ever been imagined in the first place.
Usually it never starts with that first sight
That look into perfection that never was dreamed any better
Better than last time, but only to be washed away
With enthusiasm misplaced and gone awry
In manic flailings trying to capture it all in one fell swoop.
Sometimes, admittedly, it might start with a splash of apathy
Because it has to be done and here we are
And along the way it becomes the dream
And the perfection reveals itself in little debates
Comparing this to that and wondering if this is even better.
Always, though, a script unfolds, eluding time’s wicked arrow
Bathed in a moment eluding any grasp of perfection
Surrounded by silent calls and responses each asking nothing
Together, creating the pulsing song of a mid-winter river.