Prayers, Portraits, Post-Its (31)

Spring at Owl's Head

Spring all we called it, as if no merely local
miracle was referred to. Water stoplessly

seeping upward from the invisible lake, some
unseen aqueous chasm hidden deep in earth.

Track back past the moss-lined tin trough someone never
seen maintains: the source conceals itself in bog. And

mouth is just cool rivulets in sand, a coolness
spreading out from shore and blending with the warmer

river. How could water ooze through stratified death,
the slime and soil of lives compacted down to rock,

only to emerge so clean and sweet, sun-sparkled
trickling down off the trough end into your cupped palms?