In the woods, with no path
to follow, I step carefully
over hollow logs. Wild flowers
of the shade, you are their colors,
and, too, the percussive echoes
of the woodpeckers’ drilling,
and the copperhead’s
slow, sinuous slither
in the leaves…
When I come to a clearing,
you pour down on me in soft,
yellow warmth, and it is you
again, flowing out, glistening,
from between the stones–
so clear, so cold…
Oh, let me drink of you;
let me listen to the whisper
of your stream; let me wonder–
how is it that you are everywhere
and everything?

By Kris Gonda

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