Rebirth Fountain

A year before I moved to Tennessee from California,
I constructed a fountain as part of my altar.
It is one of the few items I brought with me,
and now I have removed the Nevada rocks
to place in my new outdoor display --
three pools, wood flume, waterfalls, rock-garden and
gifted plants.

I wrote this poem, back when, about my small fountain.
Thought you might enjoy it.

faucon
.................................................................................

RESCUE

The cooking pot is now antique, encrusted with ruddy, rusty blood.
Cold iron will did suffer into a thousand meals over an open fire,
to be abandoned to the hidden garden to keep the mint in check.

My father's father double bound did gain a hundred years of use,
only to let it die as life's pace drew beyond a simple camp.
I have cause to rescue it now, proper use in honored memory.

I will not dare remove its hard-earned flaky skin - not me;
or straighten a handle casually bent to loving lifting hand.
I will wash it some in a mountain spring and dry it in the sun,
and gather therein some pebbles, a few for me and some for Her.

In its core I will place an ersatz heart, driven by electron prance
to poor replace the slow gravity seeping gifting of the spring.
I'll pile in some pleasure stones and pebbles from the forest glen,
and perhaps a twig or two to engage the jutting drift worn branch.

The water will pulse and laugh with glee, and claim new life in harmony
with the reborn trusty, rusty pan and red veined quartzine skree.
Something calls out to me from a fountain, a gushing, vibrant claim
on life's vain struggles that I did have just before I settled near.

I listen close to the cycling chime of the jeweled misted dance
where trickle spreads in silent calm in the soul of that simple bowl.
I am led to contemplate on birth and life and endless loving bond,
and question close -- did I rescue it, or can it rescue me?