If I had two
Willows growing east and west that would provide dappling of sun's morning glare.
Too, evening gleam from
water's reflecting shafts toward where weaver chose two
sapling cotton woods,
to suspend a high sky pole
overhead from branch to branch, earth pole lashed from
trunk to trunk there in majestic island wood of green and
brown, gold and blue of river's bank and high-hard woods
surrounded by a salted earth of stunted growths in arid,
sandy desert land of rusty hues.
����Sandy desert land yet cool; the breeze that comes
down the tree's tall shade and cooled too, from rivers flow
deep in the earth below those trees and flowing dark in
Mother earth till a bend is reached.
There for an
instance it appears above that land to nourish root and
stone and man, to only dive below again, once past that
river's bend in river's wood.
��River's Wood was its name long ago and in the past of
peoples gone from a land once called River's Wood.
But called
in another tongue and by ones gone under and so too, gone in clouds above, as it is told now from the few who
still remain to tell that tale about rain and help
it brings to those that yet remain to tell of things like
River's Wood:
Of the Mother earth and Gods own breath that's blowing
there to cool for time that river island in a desert land.
����Too, cool for time a weaver sitting on the bank of
River's Wood.
��God's own breath is blowing through a place in time where
weaver sits to weave a simple thing
that only crosses
string;
To teach about a world full of mystery
and music all around a weaver sitting on a river bank in
time,
where God's own breath is blowing still.
Two Horns