Treading air--Flowing Water

Leaves’ colors fade— 

their stems loosen hold. 

Birch and Maple will surrender gems. 

Youth rake up the treasures to burn.

Days shorten.

How do I move through my time, 

now that it's measured?

Somedays, the air thickens so,

I barely penetrate its velvet curtains.

I tread air like a Celtic totem— 

stumbling legs,

tree stumps; 

weary arms, 

leaden swords; 

my plodding feet, 

sarsen stone.

Teach me to swim, rapid river,

not the strokes that whiten waves,

but to float, flow, a fluid way to go, 

serene green around the boulders of these difficulties.

I’m searching a liquid philosophy, 

one to hold in cupped hands, 

and sip,

like water from an alpine spring, 

cold enough to take my breath away,

and return it to me after I drink,

refreshed.

@Copyright 2017 by Claire Germain Nail