ihave a longing for a hill

a passion for small streams.

and there’s a creek that winds itself

among my muted dreams.

a tumbling stream, you know the kind,

with water running clear,

where birds might bathe between its songs

and pilgrims hover near.

it twines itself, love-fashion, round

a flowering tree, then worms—

and oozes in between the roots,

of sycamores and ferns.

petals float down and mingle with

ribbons of grass while i

am conscious that i am dreaming,

and writing while i sigh.