Nymphs and naiads sang, but not out loud, and not to me,
They sang under the stream.
Into the nooks and crannies, eddies and vales of aspen trees.
They sang of leaves changing colors in the sun.
From green
To yellow, with a little bit of auburn red.
Then their song continued to pass through.
I passed through too, but not entirely through.
The echo of their song stopped me.
Plus my feet were stuck in the stream.
Smoothed by the black, rolling rocks, and rooted like a tree.
I wanted to follow the stream, floating like a piece of green
Grass. Half submerged, struggling to stay above the red.
Instead I was well below the red.
Half drowned by the water siphoning through
My stringy, clinging toes, I could hear their echoes calling to me.
I just couldn’t break free and sidle down the stream
Past the quakies and evergreen trees,
That dance a dance in hues of green.
Still the nymphs sang. They sang a sad song called ‘goodbye green”,
About the fish listing in the stream. They also sang about a red
Autumn and a brisk dawn. They sang through
The setting sun. They sang through me.
The naiads sang too. But they sang from the stream
To the forests of aspen trees.
As I listened I felt myself bend like a poplar tree.
And I felt the trees, in all of their green,
Bend like me. My fingers reached out and touched their red
Leaves. Igniting the forest of fallen leaves through-
Out the valley, and the bend in me.
Until the fire reached the cool, darkening stream.
Then rocks began to roll down stream,
Rollicking to the beat of the whispering trees.
And the forest, still green,
Blazed red
And yellow, in the evening’s fading light. Through
This change, the nymphs and naiads sang, but not to me.
The light faded to night and the singing stopped me
From listening to the steam still streaming,
And the creaking of a thousand trees.
With a caress of your hands, the spinning jenny whirled a vibrant tune. “Weaver girl” I said, “let me see you weave us two.” You smiled a sincere, but concentrated smile. And your hands kept plying and your feet kept pumping, the threads kept flying, and I watched. A majestic pattern of yellows and blues grew. Amazed by the colors, and the hues, I watched. “Weaver girl” I said, “let me see your weaving.” Again you smiled that brief and concentrated smile. Leaving wonder to tickle my sighing. Still you kept weaving. Until finally those different hues, filled with yellows and blues, came together to paint a picture so clear and so perfect I couldn’t move. Then I realized it was just you.
