Where you think the shallows lie

Where we come from, where we go, only bridges crossed ever truly know. ~Aucassin Verdé

Bridges In Forest

Sometimes we know, sometimes we can’t possibly
guess. They open their emptiness before us, smiling
in that dumb mute way a cow or donkey might look
at us through a wire fence, their deep indifference
cudding a thousand yards from where you think the
shallows lie, a wooden gaze stretching across an
infinite fording you could never make without them.

Sometimes we know, sometimes we can’t possibly
guess. What lies ahead is as probable as castles made
of sand and vapor, the faces of top-hatted presidents,
cameos feathered in clouditure that lose cohesion the
moment they’re recognizable. Miracles and mayhem
stand both ends of an untraversed passage, sentinels
guarding what might be, solemnly protecting what will.

These are the brief spans we come upon, railed and
netted, perilous obstacles that ferry us over those far
worse. Salvation and enslavement, for to turn back
now summons other masters. Thus we press ahead.
Among stone settled as the stars; between trees lifted
as hope for something favorable to carry and seal this
day that has yet to exact its arcing and footless toll.

Joseph Gallo
August 13, 2012