Of Time and the River
I love the way the river rollicks here,
and how it sluices headlong down the hill
to hurtle through these spruces in a thrill
of spray. Up-slope, beneath the glacier's sheer
fašade, this melt of snow that fell the year
the earth was made emerges as a rill;
then, far downstream, it scours the rocks until
they granulate, dissolve and disappear.
But in this place, we see how fine a mill
has been at work, imparting its severe
but sure perfection to the stones that fill
its bed. And so it is with us, my dear?
two cobbles, tumbled in the stream, to cheer
the heart of Him who polishes us still.
-- Bill Daugherty