Long armed oaks, leaning, reaching
for something, beyond grasping.
The wind moves free on the river,
yet pauses at the bank, as if caught,
in some thought, and whispering why.
The Osprey glides above , then dives,
splashing down, grasping for something,
The sun climbs the far bank,
covers me in gold, and I swim
in the water and the fire of beauty.
There is no holding or grasping,
just breathing in and out,
Like the tide.