When do the waters slow, their current stemmed
From that flow so fast, a dam desired for pause
Rather than for power or caprice of many, cause
Lined against affect to drive onward the struggle.
We’d ask how wild the days need to be, how sere,
As if they ran on a singular compass turning,
Turning, burning on the edge of a feather, whirl
In the patterns of stars, yet calm still eludes.