Someone cried out
last night,
slipstreamed into my head. No, no, wait,
it was not so,
so gentle,
that
torrenting, muscular green whelming,
that forcing of gates and entering,
so powerful, so penetrative, I did not believe I could securely
shore
my mind
from the storming Charybdising, desperate lunging
of power.

So I sang.

For us both.

A tune,
I know not what
but
      of love,
of course, oh    and...
and
     tenderness
of
     peace
and
     eventual happiness,
           of worthiness
              deservedness
and when the words would not come,
for I forgotten
so very
many of them,
the very metallic taste of them
and how to twist and spout and pour hot from mouth,
I swift-created new
and some were nonsense too,
inserted as one might
a well-worn river rock, still shiny-wet
to subvert current's strength, encourage taming, gentling,
lulling storming into curlicueing eddying,
conjure a swirling, pattering, patterning Celtic
rhyme to subdue
and as I stepping-stone-skipped
into the widening, slowing water,
the dark-green-glowing power,
I heard a softly, whispered whimper - Sing?
Sing?

Sing???

Oh, you sweet, sad, hurting thing,

of course,
I will.