Crossing

As I crossed the bridge
into the unknown, I wondered.
As I kept in step with her stride,
an occassional look into her innocent face,
trying hard to capture the angel from her voice
the sound of celestial flutes fluttering through.
I offered not to carry her heavy bag
or hold her arm
as we skipped over pot holes on the pavement.
I followed her stride.
I blubbered about Carl Jung, the inner child,
the shadow and individuation,
BF Skinner and his pigeons,
Pavlov and his salivating dogs.
She spoke of keeping files, interviewing applicants,
probing character (I should have listened more).
We could have walked miles for hours.
Still I would have been left wondering.
That is until I pluck the fresh lotus from her hair;
taste each budding silky petal as I tear them open;
throw them into the murky waters of the river —
where together with the moon,
they will blossom forever.
Or until I pluck my eyes off;
tear out my tongue;
sand my skin through the rough pavement;
and do nothing but listen.