April 15

You’ve rested your head on the trunks of trees,
woke to the sound of sap and the buzzing of bees
in your ears. You left here, on this gritty river shore
to seek out either where the river ends or to explore
its source, something melting and something tugged
over jagged rocks by gravity. You’ve been bugged
by the truth of it, that wit and reason has no means
of grasping what all this lifting and falling means,
what this cycle, which leaves us dry and wet,
suggests. And it’s this, that we give to get
and hold nothing too tight for very long.
Even the oldest old stones are song.
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