Where flow small rivers in their quest for sea,
Across the pebbles, and around a stone,
Between the chiseled banks where winter’s end
Sees droves of white dentaria April-blown;
Where great white oaks and sycamores unbend
Above the water turning into foam;
Along this water-path a soul might mend–
Here let me settle; let me call it Home.
by Ray Romine Monday, June 8, 1953
