Stream at Twin Lakes

I dipped my hand into a mountain stream
that brimmed with icy broth from melting snow,
water trapped for months in frozen froth
made molten by the heat that radiates
from places where the water goes to pool
and wait for the miracle of tiny seed

Younger, wilder than the poetry
of light and ice and swift colliding wind,

the oozing rivulets of life compose
in rime and form that holds its shape but long
enough to feel the current's stony force
and know it stops for nothing, not for death.
We lack the austere power of simple chemistry
but have the chance to glimpse the arc of mystery