When the Water Gets Too High

What am I trying to accomplish

when the goal of my actions

is to find the center

of a bridge

when I know neither

the first steps from land

are supposed to match those

that wait for me at the

other side?

Shades of white and grey

find each other over

a blanket of water:

a quilt, opaque and dreary

yet holding more life

than I can imagine – underneath.

I find the center-

and I want to feel the waves riding

over the core of the Earth.

The plot has a good beginning

and middle- the puzzle

is the end.

Will the hopes and thoughts I had at the

beginning of my journey

exceed, or meet, those that I

find at the other side?

The land I step off of is

so green that I need to squint my

eyes,

and the urbanity across

the water welcomes me

full of contradiction-

an arch for a bridge

and rectangles for buildings

repel in appearance from

another place.

And when I get there

the bridge I have crossed feels

more like a tangent,

each line I walk over

begs to be seen again

from one block to the next.

I ask myself, if I were

to take my hands out of my pockets

would I feel the shifting of land under me, because of the current?

Probably not, because the

bridge is made of cement.

And if cement were to have an

identity, a description, to me, it would be

confidence.

But once I get to the other side

I am somewhere unfamiliar, yet

full of life, full of energy.

The linear architecture of

a bridge meets a desperate sky,

desperate to be blue

so that I may see what

I already know and go back

To a perspective unseen by some others.

The wind meets my back.

It tangles my hair.

I wonder- If wind were a

color, what would it be?

Maybe this is something I am not

meant to know,

like why one may feel

the most important part of

a journey one may

find is at the center of it all.