Drifting soothes the spirit
as chasing chafes it.
Refuse to swim upstream into sewage,
find the current and release
that poor limb from the river birch,
tethered by roots you can’t see.
You’re not a fucking tree—
your roots don’t need dirt;
they go where you take them.
Trust the river, stop clambering
for the bank
where moccasins nest.
Getting banged up in the rapids is worth the ride,
jealously remembered in molasses-slow depths.
Dive down beneath the surface,
find the place where the green light gives way to impenetrable darkness
then come back up
and drift,
unless you’d rather drive
to the ocean.
About the Creator
Harper Lewis
Intrusive rhyme bothers me, except as a weapon.
Intertextuality is my passion.
Formalist/ New Critical are my guiding theories.
My words are mine, not a robot’s.
MA English literature, CofC
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