hands of crop faceless man under water

Sometimes I feel the streams of memory

overflowing the banks of any containment

I have erected to keep past dreams and desires

from flooding me for forty days and nights. 

Water is not my element and it holds creatures

deep within me I do not know I can defeat 

the way Beowulf once did in that sea that 

has become a metaphor and so much more

dangerous.  I worry how the past has a strength 

that can exceed the moment, a dance that will

not be forgotten, a touch the heart still longs for.

“There’s nothing but now,” I remind myself 

as if a lie like that can change the truth

and see the waters rise and consider the nature

of baptism – standing in the river, priest or 

priestess beside me, one hand on my back, one hand

over my mouth, nose squeezed shut and my arms

crossed.  The words spoken, the submersion, my 

wet, sputtering reply as my eyes open.  The brothers

and sisters of the deep having marked me

and I walk on the water to the shore forever dripping

with that knowledge I can’t speak of, forever 

its essence in inarticulate splendor within me. 

The fear of drowning gone.

Hootism:  Tomorrow means one more, one less day and I’m alright with that.