The air was dry and the valley was dry. Tufts of yellow grass clung to the hillside and to the edges of the valley floor -- where they joined with the barren, brown tines of bleak shrubbery. In the riverbed, smooth stones and boulders sprawled to the shoulders, far wide of the feeble stream that flowed at the moment. The water ran gray, having come from the edges of a glacier that scoured its way down a granite channel. And in the "V" far ahead, clouds as thick as the mountains were being lifted and dropped over a snowcapped peak, pretending they'd bring their moisture into this arid landscape.
may become your fog, or
may sit in wait
I watch a frangipani blossom --
its elegant five twisted petals
drifting toward the smooth laminar lip
that rolls over the cascade.
And I feel a teensy queasy,
watching it be lifted and whipped
over the edge.
As if I were it,
and it were me.
The burbling sounds did clarify my mind.
Somehow, the flowing stream was one with me,
and sitting down just at the riverbend,
I felt more flowing rhythm than I could see.
Some part of me was whisked in search of sea,
though my body sat at the muddy edge.
I know not how a part of me could flee --
just pure potential, being on a ledge.
I lost the river like one loses blood.
It's there, but [unseen] becomes all and none.
Each is swept along swiftly by a scud,
but seem so still when you and it are one.
The mystic moment comes then flits away,
and I am left with nothing fine to say.