Rushing in tears, in a cascade, so
Perfect-blue but still shimmering with
That crystalline hue of summertime winds,
He waded, so salt-cold and blistered, but still alive.
Blistered by those words, and those tides,
The tides of man, and the quotes of the laughter, so
Unfortunate, but still, as apparent and as clear
As day and cascade, he knew the smile's visage true.
And then his soles drowned in wet, and
His legs scratched and scrawled on granite blades of ashen black,
And at the point of the scabbard, at the end of the height, at
The tip and the top
Of the old cascade, he could see that grand old drop.
That old tip-top fall, with its golden monarch wings so fluttering,
And those salt-coated vines so jutter-stutter off the side,
The buzz-hum-ruzz of the bee and
The bumble at the cove of his eardrum:
"Rum-tum-tiss, hop on through,"
The buzz flies off, and top the lip he moaned, and
Teary-eyed shallow waters swim off and away, and hand-outstretched –
Plop, the tear fell, and he stepped up and onward.
Drop, drop, and the cascade poured,
And with that gaze so finished, so
Over and done and better than none,
He, too, dropped on through.