The Lost Poem

The rushing sun-flecked rapids sang the words,
Complaining oar-locks told it to the lake;
Its rhythm was the winged flight of birds,
My stumbling footsteps followed in its wake.

'Twas finely etched in candle flame at night,
The clinging oak leaves lisped it as a prayer;
Away from earth and toil, by starry light
Its shadowed pathway lured me unaware.

That lightly whispered song too soft to learn,
In haunting tones pleads temptingly ahead;
'Twas lightly held, escaped nor will return,
But memories dear now comfort me instead.

-William Malewitz, Songs Of A Beachcomber

The height of felicity lies in simplicity.