He says he prefers rivers;
Spirit gurgling swiftly
o’er rocks, channeling life
through valleys; ever moving –
claims we are all like that.
But I see only murky waters -
shadowed like my weaker parts,
too soft and quick to hold.
“Give me the ocean!” I cry,
“Torrential waves of joyful tears -
salted Souls too rich for earth!
Beyond each gorge is sea, you know -
and all your streams rush to it.”
Written
April 10, 2003
Mouth of Columbia
