streaming- throughout the seasons (an upstate new york memoir poem)

the ivory colored goose eggs
sit in an old rattan basket
placed on the weathered pine wood table,
upon the worn slatted  porch floor

with views of the ceaseless stream
directly  below; every time the stream runs
behind the house, the participants are left
breathless--a water view to die for--

in winter it is most difficult to see the river run
there is an abundance of snow piled up
above the frozen stream, beside the stream
that would in spring break open into dance

yes, t.s. eliot--april is the cruelest month
we get used to it--we do not get
jaded by it--we celebrate all
the stream says to us

whether it runs in a trickle,
or a steady pulse
of galloping ripples:
a race horse with no conscience

how she sweetly swirls in spring
while the wild daisies spill
their petals of white and yellow
stones, weeds,  pine needles

both breathe and are breathed
into another fiasco under water
as lovers battle out who is right
underneath the spot light

sun sweltering in summer
darts straight through the top
of the moving stream
warming everything

allowing us to dip
at the far western end
of the pool you dug,
digging and respecting the mud-

moving waters, rising currents
feathers, fellowship, fantastic
freedom never felt better
than this- no clothes needed

until maybe mid august when
an early autumn brings the highlights
of crimsons on trees, the scent of ida
red apples--shown in all children's cheeks

left waiting at the bus stop
in the thick depths of winter
wistful, we drive down into the valley
to the west and slightly north

slip slide on a patch of ice
honda goes flying, swerving
to the left--burrowing down
the densely packed forest

we settle in between a circle
of cedars and douglas firs
safe as chrysanthemums
in an earthen vase

early november--the smell
of cedar chips, wood stove smoke
and snow, soon to fall
right after sunset- painting

tropical colored sky with icy
blue, clear crystal crevices
excising any fear of separation
realizing what is real is what is now

is beauty not bent on any religion
philosophies suit us fine in tree house,
back yard slide, and a circle we form
down by the old black willow

fire ceremony on buddha's birthday
early july- how the stream hollers
peacefulness- faces, placid
how serenity becomes us

words/photo-kate lamberg (c) '15