Saturday, April 10, 2004


On rocks uptilted from the stream
Soft grows the moss.
Moved by the movements of a dream,
I slip across
Through blue reflections of my wavering face,
By stones held distant from the bottom place.

When woodland on the new won side
Unmakes my way,
And I think of the earth's green hide,
I almost stay,
But memory of my blue-mirrored face
Unstops my movement in this wild, green space.


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