It’s pounding now
-Wild above my head
It’s loud now
It’s unrestrained and growing
It’s the kind of volume
That on most occasions
You would shout to the pit-a- pattering little feet
To take down a notch or three
The kind that would
Chase that solution that had been a long time coming
And scold inspiration and weary her coming again
It is warm oil flowing down a single place on your back
-a noisy quiet,
A close friend sitting very near in silence
It’s filling the space about you
Like a cloud
You rest your head on it
And sink in
He travels along that way
It is the poise that he holds;
“Protest anything, be bound by nothing.”
The pull of his passion is felt pulsing like heat
by anything that gets near.
So he goes, spouting cinders of life
onto every dry brush.
For a moment only
We get to match.
As the day is closing
he’s back aboard celebrating his simple space.
His ruddy look of confidence mocks
those of us that actually stand in line.
Overhead governors transfer rule
and the colors of reds change to blues
-he softens his frame to match.
The air, no longer tempered by the sun’s rays,
joins him where he is sitting.
With her truer nature, she passes her brisk fingers upon him:
he receives instruction
how he should never lose his edge.
She looks him over,
taking what is left of the day’s work from him;
Her every breath is defiance
-he brings his soul to match.
Lying on his back
He lets the rhythm of his heart match
The gentle kiss of the water against the hull.
His contentment peaks
And in that instant, he fades.