East of ambition; north of darkness. But south of where he’d like to be
A river flows. Or a stream. He chooses what he sees.
And sometime past while walking on the stony bank
Between the lone pine tree and his dreams.
He loosed his grip; a violent thought wrenched it out of reach.
And now you hear him in the early dawn or late at night
Stumbling among the reed beds; the shallows choked with weeds.
Aware of the enormity of his loss; the emptiness beneath his feet.
But here and there; under and between; he plans to search for evermore.
For now he knows which way the river flows
And what he seeks will be found; on the far shore of these waters deep.
Copyright © Adam White