Thursday, July 28, 2011

Musa & Co. moseyed, musing on a river path; if this water ever runs, which bubble do I dub my own? Picky Musa touched this water with his staff to see if his luck would strike twice.

Somewhere swimming in his part brain, did an image surface from when he fled; if the river, now, could speak, would it pipe up with the memory of his mother's hands in the water? Whose hand were these, that played along him, now? The bronze or golden? Which mother set this boy a-weeping? I was born by the river, in a little tent,/ & just like the river, I’ve been running ever since. Musa-Music places his hand on that stream, hoping the water remembers their repertoire. There is softness in this rush; as if the river murmured her. There is home in the river, for those who know the lullaby of water. A home running too far down the nerves to be anything less than pain. A pain that says It’s been a looooooong.

Musa struck home upon bedrock & there was water.