Gazing At Water
Only in a riverbed, when one faces the morning sun or the setting sun,
The river water can be lavishly colorful. Before the eyes,
Beneath the feet, it is an expanse of muddy flow, apparently still,
The evil of being deep.
Boats do not present themselves, but are perceived
As leaves which drift along, hardly cutting a trail behind.
They are swallowed by whirlpools before the river bend,
As if night flowers rise from the dark earth,
And hook the human vision.
When they appear again, it is in the downstream calm water
That they present their death to the sun.
Oct. 4, 2010