Buried in a shallow grave, as an old willow you stood.
With what reach I have, I beckon.
Your branches glean as offspring
glowing under a tinted moon.
Not rightly so with the miles between,
and the shapes of our spirits blending like a confused puzzle
and angry sky.
It was in a yesterday
or a tomorrow
that we laid our colors on paper.
It was in the splatters of paint that we touched and blended together.
It was there.
In some other cosmic shooting of our words and tangible meshing of our tongues.
We would have been a perfect stream of consequence and tumultuous minds
pulling to make what it is I already see from a distance.
We are a multitude of things to come.
Meet me at the river
at the break