Amid the foggy hills
Is a vessel of kind thoughts
Which pours the water into lovely daydreams
And into the many warm springs of rainbow color.
Upon the gray hills is a glassy house
Amidst the light of the warm suns above me
And in the water pitcher is three voices
With each as a ray of light.
Inside, is a kind woman, the mother of my mother
She pulls down a gray book from a rusty shelf
She speaks of love through Irish poems
And in the dreamy letters she reads and yet not through the words.
Amidst the cloudy mysteries of both gray and silver light
I see a voice of times past like miles of shadow
As snowy old buildings are all painted bright colors
In a vacuum of wisdom where silence means everything.
She speaks again with voices young and ancient
As with rushing water in the poem’s continuation
She speaks her good thoughts
Amidst many red flowers all hidden in a corn field.