Hiking with the old acorn lady.


She knows the green cavern
Through which we walk
From Springer Mountain
To the caribou loam of Maine,
She sees rocks release
Ancient reserves of moonlight
And bathes herself in the glow,
Hears frogs pray for rain,
Sees beans and squash in bloom
Where I see only straw.
A smell of mushrooms
Is in her clothes,
She hears a beating of wings,
Voices from water and ferns.

Put all that you are, she says,
Into the least thing you do,
All that has been
And all that has been said
Still reaches us
If we watch the trail
And listen to the trees;
Squirrels chatter
In ancient languages,
A moon can rise
From behind a flower,
You will capture
The wind with your hair,
Thc sun with your eyes,
And balance your burden
So it is light.

J. W. Rivers

Your Comments Welcome