The old track to the ridge line
begins where two rivers meet,
aquamarine water pulsing with oxygen,
original path cut along the lines of power
up the steep mountain from tree to ancient tree,
roots forming a network from sun to inner Earth,
an energetic grid alight and flowing
across the long switchbacks to the solitary lookout
where centuries old doug fir digs its roots
into the spine of dark basalt,
down into the reservoir, up into the winter sun,
the sound of the river still echoing
in this place of origin alive with peace,
waiting with my secret name.

Light streams in our eastern windows,
a soft winter brightness warming
the frost covered sidewalks
and Christmas morning in our old home.
Ancients celebrated this gift in temples
with rituals dedicated to the solstice,
to the changing arc of dawn
as sign of how our lives evolve
beyond the maddening hive,
gently lifting our faces to the light
giving thanks for the Earth,
for the mystery and magic
just this one morning
as if the Sun would not return
unless we called it by name.

When men gather
in the strong rain of the forest
the sound of the drum echoes
with the music of the river.
The bald scree and forested slopes
send back the message
there is room for you here
when you return in the good way
bringing the sharp truth of your tears,
the golden wounds of your life
and the desire to take your place
upon the sacred Earth.

The earth is far from me
the comfort of the ground
and presence of open water.
I imagine a world of forgiveness
with the power of new life
and look to the east
praying for this hope
to find birth;
in the soft gray sky
the thin branches of winter
extend upward,
the faith of the trees
giving form to light.

When the last leaves fall
to the fires of autumn,
the slender branches fill
with buds of another spring;
so many Camelots lost
like Avalons in the mist
yet winter trees tell their story
as the sun dips in the southern sky:
no end without beginning,
no defeat without forgiveness
and no close to the tale
without the returning strength
to form our faith anew.

The sound of the river
like the rush of winter rain,
mountain water flowing
over ancient stones,
speaking the old story,
the long line father to son
generation upon generation
and forward in the expectant glance
of grandsons with their tender courage;
the river says our greatest strength
is our deepest vulnerability,
the many times we’re beat upon the rocks
the music we make in the circle of life,
supporting the arc of humanity to lift and float
upon the oceans of change and renewal.
The river speaks to this mystery
living in our hearts
as it does in the flowing water,
singing the voice of the mountains
through the forest
to the vast and timeless sea.