Bridge to water.

To connect one point to another,
like love, or connection,
someone has to walk on.

Someone has to cross the gap,
maybe walk on water,
in storms,
and still know quietness of
better depths.

When you come to the end of what you know
and the next feeling offers nothing but
uncertainty,
common sense and caution would want to make you
wait and see.
Stepping out could drown you.

I am no declarer of triumphant miracles:
I have never walked on chemistry that wouldn't
bear my weight and the muscles of my back
beat no wings,
and when I am angry my words
will make themselves known.

So is my bridge to water,
or to a particular point
that another might describe?

I have come to the end of my pier,
and jettison weight that would hold back.

I have no intention of swimming through this
winter of wet ideas.

I've walked through the forest to reach this place.
The water seems deep, from where I stand:
my obedient cells are ready to escape and cross
to another space where I shall re-learn
the old things that are the stones of bridges
against which water taps and laps
its blind way, passing beneath the arch that
covers the bright flow from the night's stars.

I know that my held-out hand
is not alone. The bridge that I wonder about
was built long ago.