We always want to start

at the beginning.

To trace the ocean

up the river

to the sky.

As if it mattered

what the origin was

of water,

to someone

dying of thirst.


We don’t start this life

at the start, either.

We wake

to consciousness

caught in the current,

already moving

towards our nexus,

bound to join the flood.


We can trace our blood

back to precious moments,

or farm our lineage

for old glories,

but in the present,

we navigate these rapids,


if ever,


considering our destination.


The tree

does not remember

the seed.

It is too busy

reaching towards the sky.

Caught in the wind,

the rip tide,

and the undertow;

our quickening movements

never hold for long.



HG – 2020

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