When Words Fall, Sweeping

Ever flowing, ever wandering,

Every moment, assorted pondering,

during journeys, thoughts conjuring,

inhale life’s blessings,

be happiness in conduit.

Whirlpools breed

under rapids with purpose,

whipping me with clarity and repose

against the permanent wave’s solidified surface.

I fight against its pull,

tugging against its existence.

No wonder,

it struggles with

Vigor.

As do I,

escaping

before waving

the white handkerchief.

The banks of the Boise River

chained together by metal and engineering.

The crisp, rushing tributaries shed me,

quick as the hammer strikes in tandem with the

trigger.

A simple shake, enough to turn my world.

Flush

with recollections from ancestry,

hidden in prayer,

frigid bogs and marsh serve

as spiritual havens.

I emerge,

speechless,

without a quip or,

any one,

singular

word

worth expression.

Should we attempt

to catalogue life’s moments

which break from

our notions of routine living?

Moments

that disregard

and discard

our philosophies,

our identity,

our being,

in favor of something

defiant towards life cycles,

deafening for all who share this sense?

Should we attempt to describe the moments

that don’t fit our observed categories

when words

fall,

sweeping,

to the depths of the riverbed

at the mere attempt?

Of course.

Who would we be otherwise?

Michael Carney