The Flood Gates

I've always had a tendency to sabotage relationships by either holding things inside or letting too much out at once, or some combination of the two. That's what this is about.

The Flood Gates

 

So bleak, this face that stares at me--

Yon’ endless, sightless, sandy sea--

That ever climbs against the lee

But lacks the legs to stand,

 

So swills, and bites, like bitter rain;

But thankfully, I feel no pain--

For I am built with stronger grain

Than desert contraband.

 

What am I, that I speak as one

Who wears, but cannot feel the sun?

The Gate!  The Giver, yielding none;

And life is in my hand!

 

This waste--my watch, my little child--

Is never still, is never mild;

But still, the sea is undefiled--

Untouched by human hand.

 

For life is mine, and mine alone;

And living, here, will find no home.

Who wanders here, will turn to bone,

And decorate my land.

 

There never an oasis shows

In my long shade, where nothing grows--

Where nothing bends, when the wind blows--

And all the world: sand.

 

But rumors fall from whisp’ring wind--

Or fables--of a moment when

A single bloom did once begin

To open on the land:

 

A blushing rose, like scarlet dew,

Did glisten, and did toil through

The otherwise so barren womb--

Did stretch its legs, and stand.

 

I hear, as well, that former Gate--

Unbridled--would not resignate

The flower to its lonely fate;

And did not understand

 

The dangers of all life, dispersed

(And who would think such blessings, curse?);

and opened up, for all its worth.

The flower had no chance.

 

But I am wiser, I have learned

To temper where the fires burn--

The balance, should I e’er yearn

To care for immigrants

 

Like fabled rose, should one appear,

By chance, in my long shadow--here,

Where nothing is, but dry and drear:

A rolling sea of sand!

 

But lo! I sense a shifting wind--

The shadows change, the sun grow dim--

And all my life is at the brim,

And getting out of hand.

 

What change is this? The air is cool;

And from my vital, tranquil pool

There comes this song: ‘Tis not for you

To withhold from the land.

 

Oh, gentle Gate, of wizened years--

Listen!  Tell me what you hear,

And if you see the gleam of tears

Now garnishing the sand?

 

So, gathered high, like skylit blind,

The swirling clouds, at once, unwind,

And there descends such light; I find,

Alone, and illumined,

 

A rose--a second rose, in truth--

And how I hearken back to youth--

And things I didn’t, and I’d do--

And how my heart expands,

 

And like the creature in the tale,

Such thoughts of providence prevailed;

And I could feel the life I’d failed

So long to understand,

 

Mounting, like Vesuvius,

Singing: Gate, adhere to us;

Yon flower does appeal to us!

What stops us, but your hand?

 

And so I saw, in visions bright,

The rose, unfurl, wax and die;

I may be made of stone, but I

Was shaped with caring hands,

 

And ‘hap some care was left in me;

For how could I, with what I’d seen,

Refuse the song of my wellspring?

There’s no other in the land.

 

Sweet rose, they say you aren’t the first--

Nor was I; we both have learned--

And I can see, in you, a thirst

For all that I hold back.

 

These waters, here, have gathered long--

Have waited, but I hear the song--

Have stored, so I could make you strong,

So you will always stand.

 

For if the ancients spoke in truth--

That love survives the waters, blue--

There’s nothing, here, to frighten you,

But what was never planned.

 

(And though assurances, I speak,

I must confess that I am weak,

And though my stony heart does beat

Like drums for heavy hands--

 

The fable, now, comes back to me;

I wonder, rose, if silently

I could do more, than setting free

This life upon the land?

 

A spring, a gentle course to share,

To wet the ground--to show I care)--

What’s this?  The whispered wind impairs

The workings of my hand!

 

Speak not, South Wind, of winters, here!

Be gone!  Why should the lake appear?

My life--my mind--is crystal clear;

Your warnings, I won’t stand!

 

For see, the waters, anxious, grow

(Weren’t they once calm?  I thought it so),

And fill the cracks, and stream below

To mingle with the sand.

 

The rush!  This life will not hold back;

The gates will part, the South Wind laughs.

Don’t listen, rose--drink what you lack,

And feel my loving hand.

 

Stand tall, sweet rose, above the sea

That still is pouring out of me--

Breathe!  The rush is maddening;

…this isn’t what I planned.

 

The waters climb--sweet rose, stand tall!

I now wish I could change it all,

But all has changed, and you will fall,

And return to the sand.