Dim Song

The percipient river flows endlessly,
watching from its aqueous assignment,
strongly compelled to be indifferent;
delivered from that which feeds it,
the abundant waters of the mind.

Now, the water moves fast,
the too quick thaw of a winter of frozen thoughts,
rational, now sliding into history.
Now, reserving indifference it moves slowly,
as in a languid absorption of an African summer.
But now it surrenders to natural vitality! 
Now, with passion it resonates,
it begets the river’s song.

And similarly, so does that better kind of love
Which moves about in our mind of mud and smoke.
Sluggish,
Sultry,
Feverish, or
Ethereal, lambent, conjugation.

It is that better love that naturally pays no attention
to those petty seasonal changes Nature fixes in our mind,
taking its course
in resplendent disregard.

Through no conscious will,
It hears the subliminal song
resounding midway between balmy sleep
and arduous endeavor,
regulating the imperfect pulse, perfectly.

Now, it is an intrusion,
reawakening what had drifted into shade.
Now it rushes to the light
hushing the tendency to Tartarus.
And now! 
Now… now see how cleverly it avoided both Scylla and Charybdis,
And swooned…and swooned…...dispassionately?