The River Will Find Its Way

the pen was dew
on grass, saturated
with the morning glow;
am I God now,
for I choose
the word for you?
or is the word
God for it chooses me?

but surely I am
learning that merely
reading is not living;
I do not live in my skin
like a cloak for hiding;
writing is breathing;
see my fingers inhaling
as my pen exhales;

see the blood
that's still there beating
in a rhythm or two;
for they may try
to divert our flow
but like an open river
my pen will always
find its way to you

From the collection: "The Story of Living Things" >>

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