Rik George writes

White Water

White water wears at iron-stained stone, 
then tumbles and quiets in brown pools. 
The paintbrush catches the morning sun 
and distills for dawn its purple and red. 
Sun-dribbled gold touches the rills 
that swell the creek from the mother lode 
of glacier ice. Daisies dress 
a hill in lavender shawls. We stop
and kiss with our eyes. You shake your head 
to stop my kissing with lips. We pass 
a small cascade, the others in step 
behind us. “Look for columbine,” 
you say, “under the aspen,” and drop 
a wink to me for promise sign

Stickneybrook Bridge -- William Hays