Be as moss along a braided river,
ever scrubbed from the pebbles,
earth's polished bones dis-lodged,
be as a drifting branch;
if you become entangled,
petition the west wind
to propel you downriver,
past the dwarf fire-weed,
past the salmon fry,
past the cattails in the salt marsh,
a shadow of longing
inhaled in gelid embrace
by the fierceness of waves
during a summer storm.
Rilke (Leonid Pasternak, 1900) Image credit to Wikimedia Commons GONG Sound, no longer measurable with the sense of hearing. As ...
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