Moving further down

the muddied roads,

along the tiny villages

of water, the memory

drips with secrets.

Every reminiscence

cups drops of moisture

at its center.  Filtering

into the thinnest gullies,

each memory’s warm

liquidity dissolves image

after image, lovingly,

from the inside.  Until

one night, the past stumbles,

and the future rises, like

a manta ray leaping for the moon,

like a clear word sung tirelessly

all morning, like

breath into prayer, like night

into morning, loss into gain,

eternity into


Copyright Joseph Anthony of the Wonder Child Blog

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