forever feeling the pull
downhill, toward the center of the Earth,
the constant longing to settle in cracks and gullies,
to fill the valleys and riverbeds
of an ever-changing landscape,
we bubble like fast running brooks,
choosing laughter and abandon as a retort
to the novelty of our shifting world,
rejecting arid fear or the stagnant impassability
that more rigid elements might adhere to.
A joyful yearning to find the niches,
interlace with the sands and spread ourselves,
rushing and gurgling,
gamboling with churning mud
and leaping over stones wearing crowns of sunlight
then, finding our ground, we rest with a sigh,
ripples on stillness,
reflecting the sunlight and clouds on our faces
which grin like idiots up at the sky,
A revelry of rhythmic quietude.
But life is movement.
What was high becomes low
What was impenetrable, fissures
and what was an answer, rebirths as a question.
Water is powerless without the pull of earth
whose impulsive renovations
wake us from our floating dreams,
sometimes with a start
but always with the best of intentions,
disguised as chaos or blanketed in mist.
We have no use for fear
and remind ourselves that
it cannot alter the landscape or defy the force of gravity
we are forever feeling the pull.