.
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,
only,
if ever,
briefly,
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
