toastrobot

all my troubles spill into the sea
running down from hills and mountains
they make their path
until they reach
the shoals and shores
and finally ocean’s great expanse
to mix with other sorrows
and swirl back and forth
west to east and back again
cleansing themselves
in the torrents, squalls
rising up
to meet freighter captains
bobbing like corks
in the lonely darkness
of empty crossing
soundless echoes
of rolling souls
they make their peace under the horizon
of creator’s watchful eye
until at last
the wind blows them
back
through this gate
into this pool
of st. francis’ naming
to lap up again
near my feet
and trouble me no more.