Every bend of a mountain stream
Has an inlet somewhere,
A little warm corner where the
Currents churn slow
And soft
Across the water worn rocks.

And notice how the river's things
Quick darting fish and splintered
Sticks all come to rest
For a moment in the rhythm of this Gently swirling space
That gives freely of her embrace
Before everything goes drifting on and
On to where it is supposed to go
Waterways to the raging sea
And beyond.

And I am an inlet.

I do not know how to turn cold and
Resist each time
Love comes close.
No, I reach out to gather and to hold.

But yet, it is always only passing
Through and like the gentle bend of a Mountain river, I must let go.

So it is
Every time
I find myself alone.

Sitting by the banks of a
Rushing river
Listening to the whisper of the water That sounds like

Ghosts.