Falling flat on our faces was never a part of our story.
We knew it now, the more gentle we were strolling down
unpaved roads that only we could pave.
Our hands made in the evening- springs, lurking between the half light and half- nighted skies. Our lips firmly planted, but our feet, would pick up the river and move it, wherever there was turmoil or the weeping for freedom.
We’d picked up the river and lay it down undoing, the doings, as we sought out more of the river, more affection for our bodies.
And we could regenerate change, as the river would move along the coast of our limbs, wellness was always within our reach.
Picking up the river has a call,
has a knowing
has a touch
Has a picking up and laying it down.
Undoing the doings wherever there was bereavement,
wherever the weeds grew even mortar and bricks could not refuse
The river’s urgent run
Could not refuse, the best part of the river,
could not hold the waters too long or else you’d be a part of it.