mountain stream

for my father

Rivulets of tiny red veins
stories in rock.
Moss climbs ruddy cheeks.

The sad almond
of a water-blue eye,

chest rising
like a cleaved stone

the split in your thumbnail
the seal of hard work,
the splinter of wood,

the slight wheeze in the stream
of breath, an old friend

the high-rise of ribs and trunk,
the search for motion,
the eye taking in the scene.

Nearby, the
call of a wolf.

You are water curved
around elements of wood and stone,

by that stream
a bird of prey sits perched
on a branch, at rest.

My words have spooled
in a tangle about my feet

but here there can only be footfalls,
and silence.

For you, this song of praise.


Copyright Jamie Laurens and Waste and Praise contributors. All rights reserved by individual artists.