Poems flow in a stream
That winds through me
As I guide them,
Through meandering, uneven
Places in my life,
Or once in a while,
The smooth runs
Where fishing seems easy.
And I collect the pretty stones
That come to rest,
Water-washed, shining,
Along the river’s bank.
And often, there is a pool,
Green-blue, with clear water
And trout shadows, swift
And still, making a brief home,
Suspended above the sand.
Those are the ones I choose,
The surface touched only
By tree-filtered sunbeams
And beckoning on summer days.
It seems sometimes to me
That poets travel backward
Up to the source of beauty,
Where the water is still pure,
After struggling up through
Rapids and waterfalls,
Or wading through swamps
Down where the stream ends
And a wide river opens up.
Giant rivers can be majestic
But they often bury the gems
Brought down from the
From mountain caves and highlands
Swallowing them to swirl,
Mixed-up with the jewels
Of other poets’ streams.
And from remembrance
We gather our dreams.
Does sorrow fill the traveler
Who reaches the dark places
Where springs emerge
From some place we cannot see?
