Of course it’s only natural for dreams
To repeat in antic cadences
The worries disappointments and regrets of the day
Or even those of days long past

It remains then for consciousness
And not the half light of racing thoughts
Or the dark hand of Morpheus upon the eyes
To devise the bridge’s imaginary peak

Though care burdens the traveler’s tread
And weighs upon the shoulders like a leaden pack
Each step achieves some estimable ascent
Toward the suppositious crest

The St. Johns arises from no single source
But from a thousand marshy springs
And loses itself in the brackish estuary
Before becoming nothing in ocean’s infinity

The human frame does not lend itself to flight
Nor even to rapid transit or other resorts to technofix
And so from this middle height
I gaze upon the river’s swift unfathomable flow