Flow

The wind blows whitecaps on the river,
as if to shove the whole thing upstream.

It’s unrelenting, the pressure
to go that way.

You can hardly think for yourself
with all the news of what you need to do,

directions up so many streets,
a different wind on every street.

But beneath the wind the river, unmistaken,
flows to the sea.

Listen deep, beneath the playlist,
the parade drums, the spangled desperations:

the serene “follow me” of love, silent,
already in you, drawn, flowing.

__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
www.unfoldinglight.net