As if the world were locked into this certain spot,
beneath the old pine I thought I knew so well,
the rush of flowing water spoke all things.
Snowflakes made of dream fell endlessly upon each other,
as softly as eternity,,
while I sat beneath the great tree,
expecting time to alter course.
How does an old tree feel the angle of the sun,
or hear the endless talk of waters?
Perched root-deep on the stream bank
season after season,
a perception grows deep with the roots,
an aspiration climbs towards the sun,
and acceptance rides the water’s song.
The bridge I sat upon collapsed
into the rubble-pile of thought…
the pine became a tree,
the water’s song, a stream.