Poems move in currents
changing speed and
splitting ways,
and we watch.
The rolling faire,
the words they share
leave beauty behind,
ignorant,
understood by one;
intentions only guessed
while images we digest
from origin unknown.
We read, we take,
we contemplate.
But unless traversing upstream,
over boulders,
holding rocks,
growing tired as we near the point of pain
we never see its start.
The water breaks through stone,
alone...
And where,
only the poet knows.