by James Farganne
The scales of light have tipped. With each
Day, daylight’s tide ebbs down.
I straggle on this astral beach,
Knowing that soon the brown,
Cold, bitter swell of winter will
Again heave up to meet
And cover, till they cannot feel,
These aging, leaden feet.
I stand my ground. How can I turn?
From this ocean of time
We come. To it we must return.
Apart from this, our dream,
Attached to light, abundance,
Cursing cold and dark, forgets
The great cyclical dance
Of the one water that wets,
Warms, freezes, births, destroys,
Stagnates and circulates, explodes,
Retracts, boils over, sinks and buoys,
Cleanses and cracks our best-paved roads.
The whole water can’t be spoken.
It shrugs the webs of words and charts.
Once we are all awoken
From our sciences, our arts,
Our economies of measure,
Our hearts’ hoarding, then perhaps
We’ll grasp that truth – true, free treasure
That it is – cannot be grasped.
Till then, ships ply the water
For its plunder. And still I
Prefer to cold and gray the brighter,
Hotter, day-drenched summer sky.