Roscoe, New York
The kind of brook
that makes you feel
the moving world
beneath your feet
The kind of brook
that turns to phosphorescent blue
The kind of brook
you are the tree
that reaches over
fingers dipping in quicksilver
The kind of brook
to lose and reveal
its skin and soul
continuously
The kind of brook
where branches hang
but don't touch down
The kind of brook
that when you acknowledge
its presence
welcomes your own
The kind of brook
whose oak trees heal the mind
whose cool sand banks
hold massive grappling skirts
of airborne pine
The kind of brook
whose islands of wet grass
shine a million miles away
The kind of brook
where squealing birds and slurping banks
and snarling currents sound
like total silence
The kind of brook
that overlooks white-coated rocks
moss blossoming in cracks
rhododendron behind which
words need not exist
The kind of brook
whose calligraphy of limbs
along the green shore
decode the truth our rigid
rapids never catch
The kind of brook
that turns you into stillness
makes you long to be of service
waiting on words
