by Gideon Burton
How evenly the flowing water, cold
and clear across the rounded granite stones,
obeys that downward pull toward the bones
and tissued core of earth, a cycle old
as setting sunlight sliding into gold,
then orange, red, then deepening its tone
to velvet violets, with black its home
of peace and pause where time does not unfold.
Broken, and yet I would revise this line;
crooked, disruption that I would disrupt;
mangled and botched, again, let me amend.
For I would straighten even as I bend,
would uncorrode what I do still corrupt.
As evening evens, temper me in time.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - angeloangelo
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