The Lost River
Drip drop druid forest,
Thick white batons lay on the floor,
Knick knock in the rock,
Let’s find a face.
We crawled on our bellies,
Knelt before the sea alter,
Shimmied along rock crags,
–Muddy and melting between the glacier ice
That carved smooth pot-holes.
Lemon squeezing grandpas,
The echos filled with children’s laughter,
Climbs against boulders at your back,
Small streams and colorful rocks crossed our pathway.
Around beaver brook’s base,
The water’s girth, a loud noise,
An incredible orchestra,
An entire journey upward,
Rock, jaded, studded waterfall,
A mountain high of meandering,
On a large rock face, over which trees had grown
Their roots had branched
And patrons had worn
Places for us to step and fall.