following the one-legged bard
to the river’s edge
sampling aged cheese
and floating spores
my wine soaked girdle
tipping new delicacies
for lily-pad dwellers
from the east

never did the moon speak
so clearly as that day
ironically quoting math facts
to guppies and minnows

resting on the mossy bank
licking the green away
reading stories
in pussy willows
my bare skin heaving
with breath lost
taken by the sun and mood
meeting in the clear sky

twelve miles or so – but it could have been days away
who can measure time or distance
when sheer depletion of thought, exhaustion of spirit
completely swallow existence

only sense and instinct propel, habit holds sway

your mind keeps a holding pattern
while your feet move by some unseen force
it is not bravery or intelligence
we are animals
it is instinct
survival

to stop and reflect
could mean drowning or being swept away by a wind storm
whatever demon element you allow
still waters may be deep but they are also deadly serious
the wind may cry but it can also be held

heroism is skipping stones and flying kites