I
voyage
the broad life,
roused by sun and song
and rock-a-byed by the
rolling swells and ridged whitecaps
of parted time
radiating from my bobbing bow and fading in my pleated wake.
I need no oar.
My proud, penetrating bow
pursues only the anonymous horizon.
Though, I cannot apprehend
if it is my keen bow’s headway
that rifts the years
into these seconds
or
if it is
these seconds
that propel my vessel
through the years that merge and
recede
at my stern.
These seconds,
a small, transparent pool
hand-ladled from the lapping years,
now amplifying the creased channels and delicate tributaries
of my cupped palms,
mirroring in silver slivers a noble sky,
would readily spill
into the passing years and,
as soon,
become indistinguishable,
unless
I
drink
of them
and
nourish
the thirsty
tissues of my being.
I take a long, cool sip
and splash my face.
These seconds, these years,
the breadth of my life,
are measured in mouthfuls of swirling water.