Days flow in incandescent, pollen-tinted light

moment by hour by millennium unstoppable;

sinuously hand in hand with time, their free arms

throw outward, chests pump to boast of being one

with the flow’s blasting bellow of life heard only

mutely by us, whispering under our constant din

of rants, proclamations and squeals of whiny ills.

As the river scrounges, ravishing, stealing

fish cavern walls from beneath its own banks

that hinder the flow it knows no purpose only

the god of movement’s flood.  Stopping is death.

The mother oak by strength and massive reach

commands her hill only by chance and entrée

by tenacious grasp of Gaia’s breast sucking

the flow of mother’s milk.  Her mammoth face

in breeze sings praise. The flow, not by beat,

but by constancy plays the melody of her song.

This is a slightly revised version of a poem originally posted in October 2012. I am slowly adding photos to each old post and, in a sense, reliving past memories and experiences; some sweet, some not so much.