Flowing Water

A thought is as the creekbed;
subtle, consuming, rushing, passive,
abandoning all sense of time,
relinquishing its momentary hold and power, sublime.

In dreaming, thoughts arrive and never stay,
babbling, rippling past wanderers enraptured—
but as dawn goes down to day,
the water remains—uncaptured.

When you wake, your mind they tease,
with nothing short of sprightly glee,

Tittering about in chiming thirds;
and the memory of them lingers,
as you watch those perfect words
slip like water through your grasping fingers.