I dreamt of a Poet last night
with gentle touch announcing:

“Let your FROST be warmed by my sun
it will liquefy, leaving your grasses
and your webs bejeweled
for it is water that defines your land

let a moisture laden air
be caught by muscular mountains
to be cooled, as it rises,
dropping its rain down your slopes
lush with ferns and mosses
that sprout ephemeral waterfalls

let the first drops snake around my trees:
your streams dipping beneath toppled trunks
kissing the forest floor in twisting threads
running along a rich carpet of greens

let me find at your sacred place — especially
your extravagance of greens…

let me pick my way
along your shore of boulders
to pluck them from the mountains
in ribbons, the waters shall find
the gateways to fertile land

let the mighty glacier busy himself
hollowing out a bed for your lake
and surrender… for across this lake
the clouds shall dance like gauzy curtains
hiding, then revealing the wonder and power
of your land’s coastlines”

[And I did. I surrendered]