Brent Foster Poet I do not know?

Sitting On a Log

Sitting on a log
Where we didn't find the frog,
The frog that wouldn't bound;
so wasn't there to make a sound.
Exhibitting its mound.

It would have been a song,
resolving of known wrong.
But it was there, in what was near
unknown to us a clear.

Now under there, beneath our log:
spins dreams of disregard.
Completion, filling what was wrong,
interpreted through dreams and song.

The water flows and ever-so,
towards ways which we couldn't go
A silent smoothly natural wisp,
sharing for pure time with it.

We see no wrong, we witness strong,
Fueling energy among-
How we see a day to day,
complete in similarity.

Those streams below that log we know,
describe nothing but what's to show;
a time we shared with what we know…
as natures convoluted glow.

Together on that log we sat.
We understood as separate.
We started something real serene,
acknowledged thereof certainty;
that once we leave for different things-
the time we shared is still serene.

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