The water understands
Civilization well;
It wets my foot, but prettily,
It chills my life, but wittily,
It is not disconcerted,
It is not broken-hearted:
Well used, it decketh joy,
Adorneth, doubleth joy:
Ill used, it will destroy,
In perfect time and measure
With a face of golden pleasure
Elegantly destroy.
Sunning on the shore,
As in days of yore
When the ancient beast
Stood its ground to feast,
Waiting for one to crawl
Near its gaping maw...
Then, SNAP!
CRUNCH! - Crunch - crunch...
The floating feather
that eludes my grasp
isn't haughty or gleeful.
It just rolls, slips, glides,
and is gone.
Rolling boat
on roiling seas:
heaving and creaking
&
pitching and listing --
Decks shifting between
untenable states,
Crew tying in,
tethering to what might
become the anchor around
their collective necks,
pulling them all to the depths -
'til the last bubble spills
upward from a nostril.
Right-side-up or upside-down?
The flooded country becomes
a mirror world.
I spin in float
on a coracle boat --
mind fuzzy,
orientation unclear.
I feel I could flip,
and not take a dip,
but be righted
upside-down,
in the world beyond.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 