The great river is alluring chance,
it’s old, graveled edge
an over-one-shoulder
seductive glance.
I am teased to wanting
for sunny days and bright sand
that some folk say,
“lies further south, around a bend,
where each may go one day.”
Hushed rushing quickens the hour.
I fear inertia’s awful power
to draw this weak swimmer, unready,
from the sheltering, familiar eddys.
Through western history,
the same books bore three great prayers
as cross-sparred boats
true enough to stay afloat,
steady
against the deep, rolling simmer
of liquid ambivalence.
I have little breath for those nor confidence
for the eastern sense of
layers.
My wandering heart beats timid,
its toes testing the water.
The river’s source, explained by science,
is frozen things that thawed once
and a big bang made it all begin.
The ancients, equal as me, stood awed,
gave massed water a sturdy name
based on its nature, understood as God.
Neither worship nor in-depth study
make swift currents the less muddy,
illuminate what’s ‘round the bend.’
In the end,
we’ll ride each cresting wave’s crown,
destined, born to and bound.
There’s a moment for each to decide,
to trust we’ve at least three times down
before we drown.
Plunge in, set hesitation aside.
Robert On The Air 