for Norman Maclean and Ralph Wood
a snake slithers
into tall grass --
year’s end
Life is flowing on like a river. Sometimes with murmurs, bending this way or that. It is swift, oftentimes voiceless yet continuous. Every year at the time when the New Year is in and the old out, a burning desire emerges from my heart and pushes me to re-live those moments of being.
a wrinkled face --
waning blue moon
in the river
In and through my remembrance of things past, all of them are eventually merging into one remembered moment. The river of my life runs through it, a river that is always cutting and curving, now hurrying, then eddying, sometimes draining into dry channels, but still carrying its load of soil and rocks.
into tall grass --
year’s end
Life is flowing on like a river. Sometimes with murmurs, bending this way or that. It is swift, oftentimes voiceless yet continuous. Every year at the time when the New Year is in and the old out, a burning desire emerges from my heart and pushes me to re-live those moments of being.
a wrinkled face --
waning blue moon
in the river
In and through my remembrance of things past, all of them are eventually merging into one remembered moment. The river of my life runs through it, a river that is always cutting and curving, now hurrying, then eddying, sometimes draining into dry channels, but still carrying its load of soil and rocks.
Notes From the Gean, Issue 5
