I washed up on the same shore from
which I had tried to swim.
I breathed so hard, but couldn’t recoup
a face that wasn’t grim.
The currents toyed with me, but then
spit me back on the shore
just down the river from that place
I’d been moments before.
With Einsteinian insanity,
I tried again-and-again.
For every river must change its
ways, every now and then.
The grass and ground were wetted down
as if the clouds had crashed that night
and slathered moisture on the world
as a damp mop dragged over might.
It’s cold and wet and as subdued
as a painting in shades of gray.
Have you seen the world look painted —
as if it were more art than real?
Then you may know what I walked through —
its look rang false, but – oh – that feel.
It felt like every nerve burned bright
despite that dim, mid-winter scene.