Meditation in the Snowmelt

There could be no plan for this.
The firewood is covered and the children are asleep.
Seven deer have left their blessings
In the harmonies of the snowmelt.
A constellation of their prints held in cold mud.

As if a hand passed upon the faces of the stream,
The doves know one name over and over.
Our tongues are made of rain.
Now we might let our conversation be ordinary.
The galaxy has let go its chains of shattered fire.

I will never finish anything on this earth.

George Eklund