Drawn to Water

Some hearts are drawn to open water--

if not oceans, lakes where herons 

fly low and steady over the changing
ever-same surface. My heart flits
after those shallows-ruling kings
out and back again
like some tree swallow
dreaming restless dreams.

Some hearts are drawn to open water,
but not mine. Not oceans or lakes
nor even rivers. Too much of sky
weighing down water; too much water
restless under sky.

My heart is drawn to brooks and streams
where hidden stone stands steady
sending water on its way. Every second
an exchange, a quiet newness
rushing onward unhurried,
change without fear of change.

My feet long to walk cold, sandy
stream beds, where water wends
past roots; where every
curve holds a harbor 

hiding minnows,
and every pebble tested by currents
is made and found beautiful;

Where the sycamores reach
for far banks, sending freed leaves 

and silent strength
downstream, steadfastly guarding
secret places, there I gladly
lose my heart in the flow of shallow
water, not fretting
getting back, or
getting on with things.