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Wading
And here I am,
jeans rolled up to the knees,
barefoot, wading the shallows
with arguments tugging
at my feet, pulling me out
as if answers were waiting
beyond where the water
lifts into breaking waves,
the calm on the end
of a rip.
The incessant call
washes unrest across
my feet and seeps into where
it tunes itself to the notes
of a longing. Plucked by waves,
the plaintive sound amplifies
inside every cell.
There are times when
the sadness becomes almost
too much.
Then the sun bursts gold
and fans out its rays
into the evening sky
and everything I see,
hear and sense become
voices and shiny instruments
and I realize my lowly feet
are ankle deep in the playing
of an eternal song
even though, for me,
it's but an evening long.
Copyright ©
Paul Willason
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