My regret sits, a droplet on a small statue of marble;
perched upon the river. Wondering whether it’s better to slowly evaporate,
or, be knocked into the current by splashes from ecstatic kids;
playing with irises compressed in the bright sun like heroin addicts.
Neither choice being better than the other, and marble a stone of comfortable make,
and gentle in nature. Until the excited children, high pitched screaming,
knock me out of my catatonic state and into the vibrancy of it all.
Once, I read: ‘Life is more like rivers than books.’ Head over feet downstream,
beaten into submission by the metaphor; resting briefly in shallows,
where the flow finds solace between the rocks and foam.
Many people, ankle deep, playing and splashing with each other.
A light kick, a simple toss of water, to be placed beneath blonde curls,
situated gingerly on an eyelash glancing upwards at white light breaking across dark blue sky.
Rolling, dropping, gravitationally; cheek first, then chin, then down to the world.
The effervescent booming of fireworks, and children, and laughter, marking the Fourth of July.
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