your reflections are carried by rivers of the wild land,
ebbing, flowing, mixing, marrying the stranger shapes;
don’t think that poets cannot know or cannot see you
glowing, dimming, glowing as the sun swirls ‘round

every thought you’ve dreamed walks upon this earth,
your intentional steps holding steadfast to the ground;
don’t think that poets cannot hear your loud plodding
Time’s turbulence does not dance with graceful sound

and yet your songs don’t flutter far enough into Space,
nor do eyes see how far from the Depths you’ve arisen,
for you see only what you want, inside “can’t” and “can”
not seeing who you are, within the rivers of this wild land.