Thrasher's Call

Soaking in the misty rain-haze gentle bliss, I long to let this liquid calm linger on, seeping silver balm into my soul’s pores. Simple alms spared for my spent soul, my Father’s rich allowance that I cannot keep, but still my eye soaks it in, and craves permanent joy in passing days. I want to steep and keep and hold this rest, this warmth, in Time’s rushing cold stream that flows, but the oncoming chill of current knows it will not be stilled. I cannot return here in this river; it and I flow on forever.

Tea and time must leave; else warmth and joy will grow cold, and I turn bitter.