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                        SLOW   SPRINGWATER

by Melissa Dixon

SmallWaterfall ©Roderick Stewart


can I find it again—
that small swamp in the forest
my childhood haven—
is it even wise to search?
old paths are thick with brambles

I step from dark woods
into the clearing, sunlight
dazzling me—there!
white trees embraced in ivy
still circle the pond

near water’s edge
an old log long awaits me
cushions of moss
more lush than ever lure me
to settle down in comfort

stones at ageless rest
their brows worn smooth as silver
slow springwater
rises fresh from depths below—
my hand scoops enough to drink

haunting the treetops
a hermit thrush, his sweet notes
pierce my solitude
friend, how clearly I recall
hearing your ancestor sing!

phosphorescent bubbles
pop up to the pond’s surface
a tiny frog
pulses in my palm—does he
feel my heart beat too?

late-afternoon sun
dropping gold in algae pools
odors old as earth
merge with gathering dusk
mist creeps toward my feet

thin whine
of a lone mosquito
entering my ear
the hum of  distant traffic—
sounds cloud  over a dream


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