We made love to the beauty of a language in which we weren't versed. We read the poems, letting them drift from our lips like a kiss, with no insight into their intended meanings. We accepted things as they were, as they must be, never stopping to search for a definition. My friend says, We see rivers, truly, I imagine, soon before we die . She looks for a gray place where life drowns, drifts, begins its move from nostalgia toward history.
Seconds define what death tears away with flood.
There's a second river, its finite plane unbridged. It sings of life to the morning. Contented siren, its songs reflect new light in warming notes.