Hesitancies of Reason

A pause between the now, and then.
Understanding,
like these ancient rivers forming slowly.
All the centuries of reaching
desire. A need to hold.

Formations carved by so many seasons
into these shapes
for hands climbing up.
Finding the source
is going beyond a climb.
Even the stars are closer
than the nearest open hand.

Does it make sense?
Or does it all fall, like rain,
flowing water,
weathering these rivers into the stone
to shape these rocks, falls and rapids
we manoeuvre our lives between?

But unquestioning arrogance is hubris.
No god enjoys being taunted
by the proud disdain of his creators
stepping far beyond the bounds
of meek devotion, or fearful love.

But the gods must always die.
The prince becomes the golden king
as the old king fades into death.
Onward, onward.
That is all.
And this,
which you hold in your hand.

A small block of melting ice
running water between fingers.
Just like those hesitancies of reason,
and how we know it all
only far too well
amongst all this talk
of rivers and of seas.