A stream flows from the Loon Lake of my mind
(For Pat)
it requires no particular place to flow,
no respect from the land it feeds,
no song of itself for ungrateful ears.
It cannot be damned by merchant or scoundrel,
by grasping claws of those who cannot
inherit the magic of the moon, the clarity,
the wisdom of water tumbling over the smooth
stone of time.
The paintings I sing, the vistas of poetry I paint,
the story that tells me, line the banks like
wildflowers that usurp a neglected park.
All seasons reside along this rhythmic ribbon
of thought, this stream of consciousness.
If you listen, you can hear your spirit sing
like my loon, my coyote, my laughter and tears.
There is a bend on this chromium path,
where sunrise kisses each mourning
with a hopeful mouth, hungry for you,
where a forever stone creates an eddy
that defines peace with silent song.
Can you hear the ripples, from the stone
I have tossed for you? This is the place
light goes to play with water and time is not.
This morning, I built you a bench there.
It is not an ordinary bench.
It will take you to your own stream, lift you
from unwanted time, place, and company.
This bench can fly.
Gold trophy winner
Adding your comment:
As one usurping wildflower to another, I concur, my Friend. 
