Trickle

  

there is a water that flows down from poetry 

to cleanse the world of profit by grace demure

at last, its whole stock spent, its virtue gone.

dark with pollution not its own, it speeds

back to the aquifer of all purities;

freshly bathed, earthward it sweeps again,

trailing a robe clear and clean.

this water is the sap of the cedar

which ever sheds, until itself is beggared,

nature's balm on the sorry soul; and then returns

to nature who made the purest light of children .

67% rumi 

33% forest