Poem for John Townsend (1936-2017)

Your soul, my soul

older than the moon

once we gathered the dawn

brought with us the newest year

the wildest of flowers

the oldest of souls.

We meditated, prayed, waited

until water was born, saw it

bubble from the earth!

Streams of liquid silver.

So pure and bright. From our silver the birds

learned to flow in flight,

to sing, how to flit. To chirp.

I can hear Crow outside my window

telling the World how to pay attention, "Focus and fly right."

Who made Crow the boss of the morning?

Well, now that’s just one of my sly

little morning jokes, a question

that used to make John’s eyes grin

while his mouth remained firm. Still.

He was always so firm. So still.

A man made of rock older than the moon

Older than the birds.

Older than old.

But every morning, bright and new.