The Lost River


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,

Angled ladders,


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.

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