The Pilgrim Waits

I sit here. On the banks of

This pregnant river, for

One century, perhaps two,

An eternity

I wait, and the river,

My unwilling companion

Remains pregnant…

One day, she’ll give birth

To a civilization, perhaps two

I cannot be certain, and

This is not my concern

I just want to cross the river and

Be on my way, my unknown destination,

Far from this about-to-be-born

Civilization and its pregnant mother…

I sit here.

I cannot cross this pregnant river and

The river cannot give birth

It isn’t time yet,

And time, like future itself is

Missing – dead and gone.

I sit here.

Collecting the twig, and leaves and branches

On the banks, I fashion a barge, an

Instrument of travel, a means of movement

On the swelling belly of the pregnant river.

If not me, perhaps this

Barge of twig and leaves and branches

Will find its destination.

At least, a deferent spot…