In Progress

Sometime I lack the strength to read
poetry, its demand that I attend
each word, its rhythm and its relish,
its way of nestling into metaphor.

Poets ignore transitions, requiring us
to make the leap across the synapse void,
the gap in reason only intuition has
the skill to fill.

Winds’  fleet currents, footworn paths, and rivers wide
will slide to valleys, skirt the hills, without a pause
for explanation. They reach an end
but never an intended destination.