Streamsong

Stream sang to stones
and bird to sky
and every blade of grass
made green reply.
Gold water frothed
fringes round the boulders
frail fern bent over bank
sun warmed my shoulders.
Stream’s music or my soul’s
which one is older?...
I hear its tumbling tune
grow wild and wilder
pelting over pebbles.
What lack of mad desire
makes mine much milder
that just my finger dabbles
and gets wet?
But yet
as certain as I sit on browning sod
I know this stream and I began in God.