Flat is the water,
where dreams roll over
past chances and hands
with palms exposed pleading truth
and roads chosen too soon release
darkened unfamiliar clouds
where thunder presses the chest
and rain washes the better part
of shadows from the skin
while tired legs
search and find
glimpses of places
where words breathe uneasily
and latches open from hard travel,
where dust sticks fast
and rivers pull me into the flow.
Roger Singer 