Exhaustion digs deep, traces
the muscle’s edge. The slow
curve bends into bone; until
even thought wears like water
washing along a shore, reshaping
contoured relations. Memories
detach and drift free, dandelions
alighting on a stream, pocking
the surface in random patterns.
Yes, one cannot exist in the same
river twice; yet, time drapes
residual traces, like debris
within a sieve. A mish-mash
of moments remain, no less
of time than the way willows
sigh their tired branches into
the creek’s slow meander
are a part of the day’s flow.
(January 29, 2016)
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