We sat,
two pilgrims content to rest awhile on the old, timeless edge of the river. They said that live water was the place where memories were healed. Perhaps it is also the place eternal where they remain present in your mind until the end of your days. The place where you could find respite from what was and what was to come, but forevermore trembled at the power of the moments spent in the place where water passes.
Many memories had come and gone as we sat there. We watched them float by, looking down on them from our gnarled, mossy perch of the old oak tree that had given its life years ago so that we could look at beauty and really see. We saw songs that had been, songs that were to come in the Great Time, moments of pure love that we knew we could never recover, not now. And we saw what was to come and we had hope.
The present is the wave that explodes over my head, flinging the air
with particles at the height of its breathless unroll; it is the live
water and light that bears from undisclosed sources the freshest news,
renewed and renewing, world without end.
I knew it in my very bones that he must leave, a dread that mingled with the dappled light shining through the branches. It was the way of things.
But we counted the lines in the bark and stayed in the place where the water passes.
And perhaps we never left.
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