a stream most every time and I
No longer love the lake. The water lives
As on it flows from near the blue-gray sky
And to my soul such awesome pleasure gives.
The lakes though bigger, flatter in their scope
Yet do not seem so live compared with streams
Which frame the history of higher hope
And nurture there the essence of our dreams.
The navigation which the lakes allow
To me seem but a murky, mindless end
For streams into my brain firm fissures plough
From meditations moved as on they wend.
What say you seemly stream thus babbling on?
And where will be your stop when we are gone?
The Skies Over New Jersey
25 January 2006