A Visitation

I can hear the stream
crinkling nearby as it swerves
around a bend.

On the bank of a beaver
pond there is silence
the kind that feeds one’s soul

no longer ravaged by the
honk of impatient horns
no longer anxious to return
home so the business of evening
meetings can continue --

beavers prod the surface
and a frog straddles a lily pad
freed from the river bank
embedded from winter’sting.

I am pleased with the sun
against my cheek -- its
warmth an ointment salving
my spirits adding
new strength to carry on.

© Right L. Provencher