The stream down to the river

There's no contentment without fear when life so wants, our cells and mito (so we're told for who has seen them speak) explode themselves to make anew and be have been, be post-content and breathing heaviest when least content and fearing death or wanting it one lap in another piston slick hips like frames for the painting of eden, and around these words a frame of light or dark or plastic, or framing all words the rests and measures, music made from noise with waiting, and in that waiting, without wanting, breath held, listening for what note next, sounding the sigh of it coming, like light through air, the first sun of morning blessed for rising, from river or hades or tomb, for they tell us, singing, rising comes, but we in dark under the too dim lights look west where we went down and east again and the dark a rest and in every pulse of blood a rest and before each next we know our dis content until we are and end.

---

A disparity crawls between a desire for happiness and the discontent of having it - or between the happiness of seeking and the disappointment of finding.
Things we know for seeing or know for being told or know for expectation of a repetition, and the doubt we keep of our knowing, however it comes, so that the coming of a sunrise brings relief, surprise, and maybe regret at the loss of another desire. Again that discontent. The wish for endless night, for the sun to stay up or stay down just for change, or for the satisfaction of our fantasy seen in the world, for why should our dreams receive less truth from the world than the old dreams of others, god or man?
And the old stories there, where the sun goes down, where the spring sleeps, the coming morning and the chariot aflame and the pomegranate wife, the old monster death coupling to she, wheat daughter young and pretty, and that coupling the bitter winter long, undeserving old to young or death of life or selfish trickster to her grain bounty salted with the sea, and even in the undeserving, our undeserving, one of another, but our clinging anyway, one to another, because the joy is there, even without deserpt.
And all those stories then, are ours, to tell and to feature in, and to save ourselves, and to carry the sun, and sweating, as we will or have or wish, one in another, limbs akimbo, to tell ourselves the story how we came to be there, how we'll part, or where in the other we might reside, as spring or as winter, as knowing or doubt, as content or desire, or, forgetting all stories, die, and find that other part of our music, the silent rest, between.

---

Persephone,
above to below,
Spring her dress' train
returns

and asks the farmers
grateful busy planting
for tales of snow
which while she
coupled underground with
him
she could hear falling
above, and could smell
for so much smelled of snow there
but never saw
or felt
and when she rose
it melted

won't they make for her
a dress of snow?

---



That morning he said
"no sun today"
and waited
hoping he'd be right
and terrified