The old stream thought of winter

The melting of snow in the spring

The salmon to come in the summer

The leaves swirling down in the fall

The endless tide of the seasons

Lapping with silent sighs

At its worn brown banks

Its deep stone channels

And the pools where the bones bury

Their white in the gray of the mud


The old stream dreamed of the sea

Rough madness of fresh into salt

Upstream tears flooding onward

The passage of flotsam downstream


To a place with a same-different sky

Where the birds speak another language

And the whales sing a foreign song

And the trees whisper secrets unknown



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s