Sunday, January 08, 2006

Soap

There is something epiphanal
'bout following a mountain steam
up to its roots and source and birth.
The fact that she and I wore only shorts
may have added some magic,
at least for me --
a statement of the isolation and freedom,
and because the trees told us to.

Miles from nowhere is somewhere too,
and most sublime 'gainst raging heat
to find a sheltered nook
'neath the brow of a shale cliff --
the stream but a hand across
but bragging of its power
with a swirl caught patch of sand.

The gnarled tree clutched the rocks,
or perhaps held them together,
with glistening fingers
dallying in the cooling flow --
an invitation for one to share
the divine drop in temperature there
in the haven of perpetual shade.

There was a mist-fall, you see,
created by a rusty pipe set there
in a crook of bark grown round,
that diverted a rivulet from a dam above --
just enough to shower down to me
as gift from earth and willing hand
of a traveler never seen but known.

In a natural hollow of twisted roots
was found a brownish lump of soap,
that I might have missed,
but she grasped instinctively,
that we might frolic shamelessly --
the soap but an excuse for exploration
and basking in the smiling sun.

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