The River

[adat]

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.