Beside the dirt-and-gravel road
recent rains have cut a little stream
into the settling contour of a swelling rise.
Here the slowing rivulet, calming now
(water, too, fears to fall, grabs frantically for purchase)
relaxes its desperate grip on loads of sediments.
A growing tongue of brown silt
extends in gaping compliance:
a doctor’s Aaah of release.
I watch this mudbar lengthen with the days
observe its grainy leading edge
folded down to touch the streambed.
How tempted I am to touch it,
to feel its soft surface, rub its fines
between fingers and thumb!
But I resist, deny myself that human urge
to touch, that endless hunger
of the web of tactile sense;
there is a beauty that persists only undisturbed,
a truth that can’t survive
the ravenous carnal greed.
The eyes alone can drink, unfeeling,
and clever ears may catch
the tiny music of water.
