Floodgate

When morning cast the stars aside
And the chill of night had all but died
As sleep removed its blanket pall
From the waking eyes of all
The poet stretched his limbs and dressed
And wandered out to see the blessed
Grove and mound, but with a sound
Of water that was not there before.

A singing stream had grown overnight
Centuries old, with smooth stones covered in moss
The path to the grove is overtaken
Its source bubbles up from under the earth
From the seed.

The poet drank sweet water from a cupped hands chalice
He was baptized at the stream by a mourning dove
All the loveliness in the world was in her
All the sadness flowed out into the forest and into thin air.

Mist-wrapped trees, the tattered shrouds of night, as she
Beckoned downstream.

Nothing but death, the ageless kiss of the queen
The most beautiful thing is the deathless unseen.

No end to the miraculous waters that stream forth from the earth
And the stream grew into the blue royalty of a river
The cascades that tumble away like lives into the æther
Surged forth ceaseless like wasted time.

As the moon grew fat with days
The river widened and wove its way
Deeper into the mist and the trees
As an unfinished rhyme, as a grief-laden breeze.