Water rushing ever down,
gurgling, hushing every sound,
flowing under and around
root, bank, boulder, and stone,
Soaking moss and swirling sand
sculpting now, an unseen hand,
this frozen quartz and feldspar Land
of stuckness I call home.
Trees fight up to fusion’s rays
breathing air-shroud, round them lays,
until their leaves, in darker days,
are drawn back to their ground.
Dust of stars the planets’ nest
rock-melt midst the void compressed
world, from dust to dust, coalesced
and spinning, ever round.
By this rushing brook alone
where atoms gathered, boiled and blown
cling now, stuck stuff, still as stone,
I breathe the flood of sound.
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