Rocking in Season's Swing

There are lonely mountain streams
that twist and tumble in my memory –
swirling eddies of leaf shadow Fall,
mist-angry torrents of bright Spring,
and giant granite boulder gifted plunging pools
in the Summer of my life.

A sun-brown boy of lanky fishing hope
dangled a string of twisted grass,
with hook of thorn and crafted dreams
from a shaved wand of willow silence –
and I waited then patiently
back when, so ever long ago.

He watched me from a fond distance
not measured in space and time,
or so I came to sense in wonder
as he hunkered down beside me –
sharing not word or question
save the laugher in crinkled eyes.

He fashioned with a flick of blade
a different kind of angler hook,
and demonstrated how a flower pod
could serve as bait and float alike;
and left me there in whimsy
and a debt I must repay.

Each day I look for children
grown old by empty wishing wells,
with tools and skills not adequate
for catching dreams of love and all –
and show them simple things
of joy and song and faith.

Someday I’ll meet that man again,
perhaps by Winter’s frosty lake
where snow heavy branches crack defiance
to the bleakness of tomorrow’s sigh,
save for barefoot prancing steps
now drifting steady side by side.