morning poem, october 9, 2015



The beginnings of this river are in evergreen ravines

Gashes in steep mountainsides where, just below the ridge

Water gushes from some muddy mouth

And rushes down, over the jagged grey rocks

White and sizzling as it drops.


On either side of this cascade

Beneath the firs and hemlocks

Are mounds of dead needles

This is the soft floor on which the Indians walked soundlessly

And the sun never reaches

Only ferns and moss grow here in the everlasting grey.


This is  the place, hidden and strange,

Of genesis and mystery.


Copyright 2015

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