Mossy

I’ve often thought,
of how we thieved,
then lost it.
We burned the bridge to embers,
and with bare feet
tried to cross this,
river rolling only wrong ways.
With no wish for bedding
to bless us, following long days.
Because that bridgeless bed bears broken glass.
And the slow flowing bleed?
Well, it feeds the past.
Don’t you see?
Our feet would only stain the sheets,
so we keep to the prolix path.
Trust me,
water crossings rarely rise like firebirds.
They mostly serve the moss when burned.