A little up the river

A Little up the River The farthest sight I see just a little up the river where birds speak in tongues, and rapids laugh in spite of my eyes on them. Where, no matter how curious the eye, it is the sights of littered destiny dashed on waves of frothy possibility, that days are met in endings brought rushing to a stop. Because to have a moment not spent shamelessly, you must hold onto it, so it is not thrown under the wheels of turning hours, but instead can be nurtured to aged significance. Where each moments crooked back has been bent over, beard grown long, and the wrinkled force of nature fractured on the face of its lived importance. It is then the eyes I was born too do not blink, do not see what I’ve taught them to see, do not glance aside afraid of, bored of, saddened by. There are no tears of joy, no tears of pain, no nothing to shield the hand of Nature’s painted moment. Brush to canvas, I am left to see around the bend, further up the river to the very source of stream and all the way back to where we beget, to where my body rests to where I have disembarked from time’s train. Where the moon reaches down for a drink of water and her hourglassed-reflection shimmers. Where the jeweled fish leaps for wounded meal and crashes to the water. To the farthest sight I see just a little up the river, to where birds speak in tongues, and rapids laugh in spite of my eyes on them. ***Draft. Thoughts???