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A stream of water runs among

The jagged stones of the mountain

Clear and cold as the first white snow

Down to the valley of roses

And if you were to run along

Towards this eternal fountain,

Perhaps bask in its soft, fresh flow,

Feel the power it imposes,

Then, whether you be young or old,

And whether you be friend or foe,

Where are welcome those who dare climb,

In this heaven under the clouds,

Feel an invisible hand mold

With a finger steady and slow

The ifs into your space and time

And lift the heavy, opaque shrouds…

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This is yesterday’s poem which I did not have the time/energy/opportunity to post earlier, so, here it is. Enjoy!