The River Time Machine
Split bamboo was enough once,
no fancy graphite anything.
‘Whipping the water’ beautifully…
was not yet ‘a casting-arm arc’
plotted with computer precision
Away from clattering cities,
it was just one soul
standing in the water…
Where did the ability to swing the line
so gently left to right, come from?
How did pulling the rod tip back slow
find its knack in a man?
And now, where does letting loose the line
Find its way into men who have been trained
to leave no light showing
between any two moments of their days?
Yet, isn’t it clear that all the old knowing
can rush back into any over-civilized man…
just by him wading into wild water?
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“The River Time Machine,” excerpt from La Pasionaria, Collected Poetry ©1970/2008, C.P. Estés