over the bridge and under the moss, it's all scenery
somebody's house, the pond, the creek and muck
water streaked up bare legs muddy knees from wading, waiting for a tide
that won't come in
stale and stagnant, the farmers pond
awoken from in the morning
three miles out sleepwalking
mud and stone and silt in the small streams are nothing like it

they flow and rise and fall with the rain and only the rain
unpredictable, inconstant
the longing sits like a hunger, aches, cries
reaches like an infant yearning for mother's comforting heartbeat
for the familiar known deep in the soul
for the phase of the moon, the spin of the planet
to turn gritty muck into salt caked onto cloth and into hair
and prove the endless cycle of memory something more than a fading dream