Donny Barilla
Searching for Springs
I wade through the parched yellow field,
alive and mad with the scorch of Summer, I
wade through the thicket and low crouching bush.
Stepping upon the onion stalks, pale pollens dash,
swell in the fibers of the sky which descends upon me.
Into the gleaming corner of this stranded sight,
I feel the lush desire of each ribboned ray of sun.
Upon reaching the dancing trees which clutter the distant
hills and rolling crests, I glance upon the evergreens, pines and spruce,
the slender reach of the maple and the narrow path
leading my thirst to the flickering spring.
I rest here on the summit of lands, meadows, glen, and fresh green hills.
As I press my lips against the icy glint of sweet water,
the evening grew shamed and sank upon me in fogs and mist.
