rivers keep on rolling


A clear day toward Thanksgiving.
Light on slight mantling
of snow, along the slanting
Mississippi (wave of returning

gravity into the mouth, the Gulf).
There is a magnet
in the heights, a great
Pole Star, that rotates over Beowulf,

Black Elk; there is a matrix point
for all our muttering,
for crazy flotsam drifting
to the sea... a limestone font.

A child climbed from a light-lapped cave
along a spiral trail –
a thread from beryl-burial
to emerald grail (one sea-swell wave).

Beneath grey-wingรจd clouds she rose,
called forth by whisper-smoke
of Earth’s holm-oak.
Her name is Imago, her echo flows

into the planetary sarabande –
stately processional
(spring, summer, fall)
to Morning Star, at seasons’ end.

Her name is Liberty, she rides the prow
of every soul – bright salt
of gaiety – the glistening vault
of Ariadne’s crown gracing her brow.


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