The Mystic River

Flowing under, over, and through all. 

It never began. It will not end. Beyond understanding. 

Whispering in the grass. 

Conversing in the wind. 

Shouting in the storm. 

Erupting. Flowing. Flying. Swimming. 

The center is in you. In me. The Center. Just is. 

How many times has it been said? 

We try to describe that which can only be felt.
Experienced. Lived. Embraced. Loved. 

Horrific to the unprepared (that was me). 

Imperturbable peace behind the Mask. 

The ten thousand masks. Millions. Billions. Beyond count. 

As the Smoky Hill flows down from the High Plains, 

Or the Platte, the Arkansas, the Missouri, the Rio Grande -- 

Flow from Old Grandfather's white hair. 

The ten thousand turns, shallows, depths, sandbars. 

Underground, still seeping. 

Where I live, what I see, what I sense. 

Beyond me, the briefly flashing point of perception. 

Bliss is a constant release. 

The constant, reliable Mystic River. 

Thank you.