Thrasher's Call

Memory moves like water in the channels of synapse streams and tributary thoughts, at times as cooling rivulets and shallows, yet oftentimes as tempests wished forgot. How careful are the ways a soul is made, eroded riverbeds by time, the tool their Maker holds, in keeping or in fading, in rushing streams or placid steeping pools. And often, rising, pulling tides and currents drag me through the storming seas of mind, I scan the coastline, searching for assurance: lighthouse beams of purposes divine; of course, my mind’s own shores no comfort give. I must trust further up, not in, to live.