THE MIST

At the time of year mountain ash
with long pointed leaves
bear clusters of both red berries and green,
I climbed with springing step
to where water falls a hundred feet
over stones a thousand years in size
with a steady roar in clouds of mist,

clouds of tiny droplets in countless multitudes
set free to water fern and moss
since the beginning of the world,
the beginning of grace and mercy.

Mists of prayer and understanding
over noisy foam and froth,
drunken tumbling over stone
through tangles of snow broken trees
filling recent prints of foraging bears

flowing into quiet pools where
recent roar has gone all out of the water,
reflects the mountain ash, the cedar, the sky,
something eternal, universal,
complete with a painted, peeling, upside down
picnic table vandals have thrown in the water.