Stitches of the Vale
The wind it doesn't know I'm here
while rushing round revolving sphere
its whispers sometimes touch with tales
of distant places; far off vales.
The mountain it has little care,
depressed with ever steady stare
but all the tears its shed alas
have filled my soul as they amassed.
The trees they hover over me
their branches curved protectively.
They cradle me from sun-struck days
when I could become misty haze.
I am the vein that pulses in
the web of life where all begins.
My essence of transparency
revives the living jubilee.
I am the stitching of the vale
the thread that binds each green detail.
Oh, there is naught of bark nor bone
that liquid fingers have not sewn.
From basin bed, my meandering home
I quench the thirst through all I roam.
My bubbling rapids are my mirth
while binding fabric of the earth.
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