The Calling
No stranger to this woods — man of nature
Who finds solace amidst the sleeping trees.
A forest brook reflects the colored leaves,
Like a familiar old colorature.
The season was his to call it his own:
The changing light, like the leaves, and his life too,
How like the current it goes; he saw through
His reflection next to a weathered stone.
He liked how the moving water made him look,
Nature’s make-over had given this old sage
A handsome face from ripples of old age;
A gift of youth given back by the brook.
Nothing to great, something’s considered simple,
In song of birds (He knew them all)
Where small bits of form within the call,
He’d listen for the hidden parable;
And now, follows the water stride for stride,
Contemplates how far he’d come; had he known
The many ways water can call one home,
Would be as it was almost prophesied?
