Its not the tears that make me cry
but the wonder of their springs
that which beats upon their strings
coursing through the mind,
the ever spreading golden rings
that weep within my eyes.
This countenance of singing trickles
that ever flows the stream
a consciousness of rutting waves
gently swaying to the dream,
remembrance from a long ago
that cradle along the creek,
making for the running waters
my heart, my soul, too deep.