It was a cloudy vision,
a river of hands flowing thick,
reaching franticly for treasures but
coming up empty as they tumbled like
stones, never resting, bumping into and
falling over as the force moves into
crowded silence past towns and under
weary bridges where a cloudburst of
muddied hands swim in an apocalypse of
power, traveling without hurrying, intent
with destination and wagging tongues
heading fast to the ocean, the resting place,
the caves of water, cleansing and washing
the openness without borders, deep
enough without crowding; a fresh breath
was well deserved.
It was a dream, but the cleansing felt
real, and still does.
Roger Singer 