THE LANGUAGE OF REEDS

On that day, the eyes of the sky 
were open to each of his sins 
and uncertainties. 

The night before, drowning in drink, 
he called out the names of all who 
had ever loved him, 

begged for a bigger, longer talk
with the gods of time. He found him
self kneeling 

by the side of a near-hidden 
spring (just a rivulet really), 
praying that the wind 

might translate the language of reeds 
and water. When the wind refused,
he stood straight and tall,

looked for a stone, a throwing stone.
Once found, he tossed it in the spring,
waved goodbye to all...all.