a spring runs deep below
the surface, carving granite
into hieroglyphs,
its cold, clear ebb and flow,
a whetted knife.

far, far above,
layers and layers closer to the light,
the land is parched,
a remnant forest burnt to death
on the ridgeline.

the word “ashes” sounds so nice in poems:
the perfect metaphor for hopes collapsed,
but I had forgotten the attack
of sulphur on my nostrils,
and the filmy, flaking touch
of That Which Once Was Something
disintegrating
between my thumb and index finger.

the wretched glare of smoky sun reaches
down into this ravaged wreckage
of burning stumps and blackened pines,
its heat taunting the charred remains.
wandering with dusty feet,
I leave the shell of barren land
behind.

a passel of years wax and wane,
and at last the time is here
to take my daughter to the mountains
from which I came.

with all the awkward joy
of a lamb born in springtime,
she gallops through the lupines
and the daisies,
a sprout among sprouts.

and as she traipses onward
into lusty wildlands, unawares—
a sudden, jerky pause:

she tilts her head,
then scans the ferns and saplings,
mystified.
and I, with instinct overcome,
stride swiftly on to reach her side.

unfazed by my protective rush,
she settles in the silence,
and, at once poised and filled with ease
in the cathedral of the trees,
she whispers wonderingly,
“do you hear the stream?”