Clouds that overcast
the face of this river, are they
not the river,
in essence?

touched, once, by the warmth of
the sun, they had broken the fetters, and
risen – to fly, to float, to spread across
the azured sky.

And, now pregnant
with joy, and tired of wandering, they
gather to fall, to rest, and, to flow
quietly with the river of their becoming.

//2nd Sept 2002