The Sleeping Eridanus

Behold the word that I have caught: a single, lonesome fish who jumped  to hide inside my river boat and show where I should go.

But he was not alone, I knew - below the spray, the others swim. A net could no more catch them all than hold the water in.

A voice alone is not enough to grasp the taste I know it has; my tongue can give the word a form, but never give it life.

To fight Her is futility; the waters here are merciless, they'll never stop for anyone who sings so feebly as we. 

I lament that the value of these moments of silence has come from their scarceness, that the price of this sweetness is a garish and floral display that crept down from the hillside until -

by an intersection of tranquillity with commotion, the space whereon I need to walk was swept away to make for me a stretch of naked earth therein. If only I could see, now, the floor of this here desert like the scorpions and the spiders might be seeing its great expanse. I think I'd miss its desolation with my senses dulled by winter's grip,

though snowflakes coming down would soon ensnare my sight,