The Way

     
And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water
know it heads for an early release - out across the desert,
running toward the Gulf, below sea level,
to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley
rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat,
watermelons, roses, how should it know?”
 —Carl Sandburg

So much we don't know
the why of time
the way a day enters night
then disappears
never to happen again
the way of silence
when it sometimes
fills a space
and makes it holy
the way my breath
catches on rocks
when I climb a mountain
as if it wants to stop
and spread itself
on the wind
the way light filters
out the gray

the way a memory
clings, refuses to
let go, digs
into the marrow
and stays
waiting
for
a
release