Praying by a river in Upstate New York,
Sharp shoots of new life in the sun on the bank,
I swear I can smell the sea.
I am the poet. I am the man that stands here, sun blazing between my legs. The river is my bed. The sounds, the trickles, the cu-lunks, the ripples roll through my head. Bird song and spring's rampant lust-chatter encircle and enliven me. I am the man in black, but spring is on my sleeves, and I came to see and I came to walk and I came to teach and I came to learn and I came to love and the prophets are all useless now. Because we have found the river and the life is here, now. Eschatology is an impertinence and an irrelevancy, and the sun is alive with me here now. What is in this breeze here to keep, as the mountains send love letters via my eyes in the afternoon.