Somewhere,
neither at the beginning nor the end of time,I guess mid the balance,
Stood The Mountain, overlooking
mounds and hills that danced and played
in their rumble-tumble geologic ways
Once I had climbed up on his shoulder,
I told the Mountain of when my Father died,
I fit his pants, so too his shoes, I wear them now,
And his bonds have since been transferred to my broker
Was my need for old worn pants and shoes so dear?
had I not already bonds of my own?
I was bound at the time by only this idea,
Thus I asked the mountain ‘Why we die?’
As tear drop stones rolled from his eye
I heard him say ‘It comes to mountains too,’
-
Below a cool running stream
before the jag that made a dam
There was a round shouldered fish pond
where slowly bubbles paddled around
Which the King Fish called ‘The Whirled,’
There the King Fish taught his children
to escape the heron wading in,which were the good plants to eat and why,
how not to sink to the bottom,
and never to trust a craw-fish
As that summers' drought progressed,
and bore strong on in a way they rarely do,
no new water streamed within,
None neither splashed over the dam,
which grew higher with each days sun oppression,
When soon they’d eaten all the greens within the pool
the King Fish saw the peril they were in
‘Eat your children,’ his hunger said,
‘That’s not a Father’s love,’ his reason bid
As instead he lay his body down,
that his children may survive
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