Finally Asking

On the surface might I be
the reed in the muddy hand

of the historical crow
all she does
is write my vision up early

scratching out time with me
spinning my accounting of

the irreverent and irrelevant
holding the current no matter

how resistant to redirection
are the eddies
in the buds, are the lappings

on the banks, seemingly
drifting but
determined bend by bend to continue

in the service of every millennium
a new one
donated often damaged

described always altered
I can’t keep up
plenty of ink but not enough

pages as she well knows
with a caw
and a flutter she reminds me I

am too fluid and transient too
free of flaw
to violate her winged will

and so on across lines on maps
and so on
irrespective of recurring shadows

deeper and wider and out of
a composite of the passivity of ripples

uncontainable she flies away
when I finally
ask where are you today?


About mrsorenson

NOT my president
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