“Just as a line drawn on water with a stick
will quickly vanish and will not last long;
even so is human life”
who can confute the Buddha's words? yet the line is redrawn as lineage - each of us withholds the vanished, and with a stick stir memories prod pictures, till they surface again and again or quite spontaneously rise - across pond and puddle where leaves or paper boats trail before a breeze keels cut down deep and in their wake forms are frothed and re-conjured there at anchor the smaller craft rock a lullaby dripping pretty painted profiles in the contours and all along the overhangs of river and stream riparian hosts trail and dip with constancy, as pen to ink, these words I draw of you from water
A cold winter Sunday and time to join others in the Poetry pantry
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