Late January Water Patterns

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 dreamt 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 next 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.