Two Rivers

I watch from far above,
Through windows warped with summer’s rain.
It hits with steamy fast staccato–
Harpsichords,
or flippant bugs on road trip windshields.
Little lives that end in tragic form,
their stuff like art obstructs the view.
Yes, this is what I see…

I see two swollen restless rivers,
as the past and then the future.
Vicious waves churn rocky soil,
swallow logs from unknown sources,
both so filled with human fears/excitement.

And parallel they forward march,
like time and war, Avoiding peace.
I pray their well-meant chaos never meet.

And placed between by gentler hands,
is greenish grass, like black to white.
The river’s rush is left behind for
candy cotton home-made dreams.
A place to lay my tired head,
to sink below, and dream.
Mothers, husbands, children;
so much happy–I suppose.

And I am left to choose,
Which river or
the island.