Liberty is like a river that knows no bounds;
swells and contracts as it makes its way
to the vast roily sea.
The sea is a metaphor for all tears cried.
Like when Liberty died.
I guess being composed and centered is like majestic
mountain over there, splayed out in front of azure skies,
the color of your mother’s eyes.
Liberation is participation in the vision described above.
As it is, the river of my body chugs along,
has an inkling of unclogged rivulets running,
no.. rushing, rushing up and down my arms and legs.
Living in oppression is like being my ankles
pleading with my blood to climb up into my heart
where hope lives, pumping.
Hope is like hearing the beats of your own drumming
heart steady and defiant.
When you’re filled with hope, you are the river.
[From _A Tale of Two Verbs_ a work in progress]