The River

[adat]

Love flows,
itself a hidden stream
beneath the city
sleeping—
fear and hope 
rush downstream,
unseen
but not unfelt.

Joy runs
along a path at dawn,
hungry for the day
to come,
longing for the newborn sun—
a vision
neither commenced 
nor yet done.

Grief tears --
no, stabs --
jagged blade,
flash severing flesh,
leaving us to wonder
at the carnage;
realizing it is us,
as we crumble 
to the ground.

God spills
from the clouds above,
washing away
crimson tears
lifting what can stand,
leaving the rest: 
an offering
to what could not be.

Love flows,
itself a hidden stream
beneath the city
sleeping—
carries fear and hope,
unseen but not
unfelt.

Joy runs
along a path at dawn,
hungry for the day
to come,
longing for the newborn sun—
a fever dream
commenced or done.

God spills
from the pounding rain,
glass that cuts
through flesh once
stilled,
bringing that which is
alive—
waking that which will be
woken.