The Spill Back

In many ways,
the length of a life
is a slow and steady
evaporation of emotion
through the pores.

The magmaculate want, unsatisfied,
love like sunshine,
often hidden behind storms
starves the land and the child
whom grows in it.

The unseasonal torrents,
perpetual wet of Winter, bleeds
into Spring, Summer, Fall,
and Christmas, the high noon
of Winter, Christmas; an island
where Ark may, or may not land.

Youth is tenacious
is a cope, is a callous,
the blind necessities
build dams where we near drown
before the spill out,
the gush, unpredictable falling,
wild rapid running, and we,
get tired as all war,
find our foot standing on a stone
while the other searches.

I often look back,
and see layers of sediment,
visible lines of a melt
cut impressions on the soul
polished, shaped, and shiny
When all released in the quiet cry
the inevitable giving back,
as much as earth and world
could bear it;

no longer volatile,
but surrendered
no longer turbulent,
now rests in the gravity;
migrating elephant transformations
takes us through lush valleys,
beneath veils of thin cloud,
steep canyons kissed by sunshine,
streams spilling to rivers,
descend, and meander
where remnant flow
gives itself, once and for all,
back from whence it came.

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