White blossoms slip into the eddying current
of the swift river where I go lip my settling
prayer in the early morning.
Removed from the city-weary who look
for a path from the sparkling public halls,
from the concrete hearts of angry power.
Go any place to fill the ache for joy.
I scurry from the rotting sanctuaries
widely observed for their spirited collapse.
Oh, leaders promise war-made prosperity.
A great fight builds into their talking.
Quieting the inner chatter is my battle.