The Rock-Garden
Come with me, to where the river-water
Snakes around and through the rocks,
Lit by the sun,
To where the rushing stream
Cools hot, tired feet
Where all noise is stemmed by the stones.
Join me in this world
Of grey and green and blue
Where the old river sings its tunes;
Its hymns of hidden springs,
Its ballads of the valley,
Its memories of folks old and new,
And I'll tell you of the river-men
In their earthy dress,
Grinding meal and weaving reeds and singing all the while.
Of the hidden tomb,
Where a robber laid his tired mount to rest,
And of the cryptic tracks in the muck, which we'll try to guess.
The birds will entertain us,
With their piping discourse,
And we'll be soothed by the smell of sage on the breeze,
Borne down from the high hills,
Where tenacious climbers labor up steep paths,
Chasing a view spread before them like a living map.
But this struggle is not for us today,
The day is far too clear and warm.
We'll rest by the river , our bodies cooled by boulder and breeze.
We'll pass an afternoon in the garden of God,
Stealing a slice of the halcyon world,
Before the Fallen Star's meddling lies.
We'll lie there, you and I,
Surrounded by the sweetest sounds, the choicest sights,
Time will be irrelevant, and the sun will be our clock.
And as the day ends,
We'll walk arm-in-arm back down the road,
Our warmth staving off the dusky chill,
As we return to the dead land of automata,
The grinding cycle of mammon,
And the vain, callous masses numb to nature's perfection.
So come with me then,
While the summer and our youth last,
Let's be prisoners no more.
Copyright © Keith Miller | Year Posted 2011
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