on the way home
we cast in our wake
the colorful jetsam
of forms that we take.
creating, inhabiting, leaving behind
vortical echoes of bottomless dream
lost in the search, yet only to find
the ocean was already flowing the stream
and everything flourishes, plays its part, sets
and returns to the ground to be swept by the rains
and passes through ever more finely sewn nets
and only the water that carries, remains
for only the one
who indulges to play
arrives in the silence
of nothing to say.
