You like to hear of tall tales.
A boy saw truth in the blue,
The blue of the river trails,
The truth of himself plainly
As he looked in a place he knew
To be clear of self-served veils
Yet full of the hidden, strangely.
Attention brings attention,
The river drank him in:
“The kingly hills are high above
But you’re down mucking in the mud
Where every last lost lover of
Knowing all has dreamt of flood
Then fled a cloud’s fluffy grin.
What could you ever hope to win?”
“I want all of me,” he said,
Lighting up the kind of mind
That finds a way where none have tread,
Not gods nor mice, alive or dead.
The river knew and now instead
Of falling down the mountain blind,
Everywhere that wet boy goes
The river trails behind.
All new streams, you may suppose,
Mean the boy’s not far ahead.