Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in. - Henry David Thoreau
Behind the waterfall,
reds and blues sparkle and shine.
Behind the rushing stream,
the rainbow forms and dissolves.
Leaving the illusion
the droplets flow downstream.
I emerge from the river.
Stride to dry land.
A fire of driftwood warms me.
Logs burned cannot grow again.
I cannot cross time’s geography to when
I held you tight and felt the beat of your heart.
I collect my belongings from your carport,
Leave my key, and float downstream.