While the River Runs

I wake up from rivers running
through my dreams. When I say dreams,
I don't mean ten impossible things
I have set my heart upon.

When I say set my heart on,
I'm not casting my heart overhead,
tossing it up like a grappling hook,
hoping it will catch on the best.

When I say I hope for the best,
I haven't abandoned the rest —
that which I live toward each day,
one day much like another.

When I say one day is much like another,
I mean every day carries its sorrows,
I can breathe any day to gladness,
each day is a spring of new beginnings.

When I say new beginnings,
it begs the question of old beginnings,
broken ones limping through deep ruts,
world without end.

When I say world without end, I wonder
how long these dreams will pulse through my heart,
new water flowing each moment down the river,
bearing its sorrow, carrying its hope.

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