To the river I come by a thrice-known way
through a shadowy, oaken stand,
as each autumn pastel turns a shade of gray,
and each limb, an enfolding hand.
Borne in body and mind and the soul, all three,
on this leaf-layered, loamy road
are the burdens of lost tranquility
and the depth of thanksgiving, owed.
A mysterious melding of land and limbs
with the river’s lamenting flow
brings a chanting of praise in ancient hymns
on a tune that I seem to know.
Now, the body, the mind, and the soul all sing
in a chorus of wind in trees;
and renewal in each of the three will bring
a most grateful life to its knees.