The mountains held up the sky like pillars,
releasing plumes of pebbles, streams and silt
as far as my girlish eyes could follow,
and water drummed along hidden boulders.
It was a game to leap over rivulets,
to teeter from stone to stone in the rush,
to stroke the grey velour of polished driftwood,
to thread my fingers through the slate-grey sands.
And when I shivered in the spring breezes,
I pulled on the sleeves and buttoned the top of
a cardigan hand-knitted by my grandmother,
the day I first met a braided river.
Does a river know when it is laughing?
Are the sky's secrets swallowed by a cave?
Do the mountains patiently bide their time,
while we discover our own molten hearts?