White River

The better path—
It comes to me.
I make no strides
To strive for it.
My shoulders drop.
Peace exhales.
I sense the brightness
Bit by bit.
The glowing river
Of whitest light—
The yolk of goodness,
Ebbs so tender,
Hesitates, in tidal teasing,
Breaks,

In surface tension surrender,
Upon my toes,
Then over the ankles.

I stand the tickles
And long to wade,
But fight the urge to chase
The wavelets,
Who long, themselves, to lope unafraid.
I fight the urge to run
To my tower,
Where undeniables often

Arrive to fetch me.
I stand the surge,
Waist high and rising.
"Come quick," I say.
Usually unsusceptible,
I allow it to overwhelm
And catch me.

 -jenn long