Ramp Meditation

My soft knees cushion
on this green rug of moss,
part of the rock ledge,
itself attached to
a boulder before time.

I've been to the river.

I bend over to the river
to touch April water
as it channels faster 
between two other boulders.

I bend over with five
or six ramps at a time,
waving them through this stream,
white fish with spring green tails.

I rinse 
handful after handful of 
strong bulbs, remove
Pocahontas County mud to wash
downhill to silt.

The lone sound is the flow,
the echo of racing current
over granite and sandstone,

but I look up in the din
laugh at the sight,

a deep old growth of ramps,
beyond reach, a carpet
under poplar and ash.
Hazardous ramps across
a fast cold wall of water.

Next to the brook
that falls off Black Mountain
a blue spruce uprooted
to start a cave
for another bear to guard ramps
and fish trout.

I return to camp
brew coffee, fry bacon,
stir in ramps for Friday
breakfast, remember...

I would know nothing of all this
if not for Dad, Lester.

Now, I only hear
the wind approach, and
the near headwaters 
of the Williams.