water

the sound of water

from the spring

on the hillside

my mother’s voice

reciting poems

at a deeper spring

in times of drought

I discover

a frog-prince

on emerald moss

a dowsing rod

seeking a source

of water

that will never run dry

I teach myself to read

I sit

with a book in a tree

by the river

flowing past roots

it generates power

at dawn

soft rain begins

the sound

of words

mingled in dreams

Lynx XXVII: 2, June 2012