This Way and That

I’m not here to tell you just how the days must flow.
They will flow as they will, as water down any grade;
Not because it seeks a slope but because one is there.
And the stream is dark in motion as its lead tendril
Slides this way and that through dust, around leaves
And stones. And the stream is dark when it pools
Briefly behind a slight ridge or seed or wormcast
By chance somewhere nearly level until gravity
And pressure bring it round and down and down.
It stops only when it finds a hole it cannot fill,
Cannot overflow, yet must pour into under the sun.
I’m not here to tell you just how the long days flow,
Only that they do flow; as randomly as a forming river,
As subject to gravity, and opaque with gathered dust.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Cosmology, John MacKenzie, John MacKenzie Poetry, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Randomness, Time and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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