never rive

in the dust of summer riverbeds
     where heat melts an afternoon sun
     and Greek footprints have eroded
     and dry season winds from mountains
     and withered plains roll and swirl
gurus still tell of ancient battles
gurus still tell of blood flowing
     toward empty channels
     of summer rivers

in the parched throats of listeners
     where a drink is barely remembered
     and early morning dew forgotten
     and listening far simpler than speaking
     and breathing slow and soft
storied heroes seem so distant
storied courage of another time
     a time elders remember
     a time of water

as afternoon revolves away toward
     where mountain tops hover
     and white floats above grey
     and sun settles upon icy summits
     and seems to slake a thirst
acquired during high listening
an artifact of memory and imagination
     colored in tales of battles
     softened by dust

even as it reddens and swells
     there a setting sun suckles
     and nurtures upon distant breasts
     and colors the white horizon hues
     and shadings never imagined by
legendary heroes who laid swords and shields
in the dust knowing that very sun had found
     rest in a place they would
     never reach in time