Of Corvines

Jet black shadows, dwell upon the shore
one fleck of white, promising redemption
Grey blue buckets in an obsidian well;
how deep does it go, this dankness and darkness?

Carry me over from the dark to the light
then back again, casting fear like a rock
sinking downward striking bottom;
does it ever settle or does it float, unbound?

High Water

It flows into you, around, swirling pockets of redirected water that unfurl and realign down stream with the current. I stand, feet planted firm, toes gripping at the algae-covered rocks beneath the surface in an effort to hold on. A green leaf dappled with reds and yellows floats towards me, brushing against my thigh; a kiss upon departure before navigating past known waters into the raging void of uncertainty.

It will be miles from me in a short while, as I still stand on the bank nearby looking out. I'm a memory, stuck in the same moment we both met and parted, while it moves on fluid, crystalline waters winding away towards the promise of a new sunrise over a new range.

Time seems cleaved by the duality of constancy and change. It progresses without me, my image fading the further away it floats until I'm but a fleeting thought. If that.

And I wonder, if those moments we shared are frozen in time somewhere, on a continuum I can't see or touch but can feel as if they're thriving. I'm still there on that bank, the water bathing my wounds with each dip into it. The colors change, the leaves fall, the skies grow heavy and gray with snow, trees begin to bud then burst with forest greens. Yet, when I close my eyes it seems we're still there, your arms around me, embracing, as if time could never wind away from us.