One spring evening,

Art - Jessie Willcox Smith, May 1928 Good Housekeeping cover

One spring evening,
many seasons back,
easing downstream 
in my green kayak,
I blithely glided 
round a riverbend,
and found a little town 
enshrouded in mist. 

Parched as I was
and near-starved at that,
seeking a meal, and 
keen for a chat
I dipped my paddle and 
pivoted right, toward shore,
and maybe 
a stay for the night. 

The mist kissed beams 
of the sun as it set,
promenading rainbows 
in the glistening wet.
I swore I was inside 
a kaleidoscope
as I moored ashore
with my hunger and hope. 

The setting that met me
I’ll not soon forget,
like a village erected
for a movie set!
Roofs made of thatch
framed cobbled lanes,
a court on the grass
for a croquet game. 

A tall stone bluff
rose over the place;
a waterfall tumbled
down its ancient face. 
This was the maker 
of the hazy veil;
it’s elemental essence 
escaped as it fell. 

The mood was serene 
and the power profound,
but throughout the scene
I found no one around;
just shutters closed 
on lonely streets 
with no kind souls
to comfort me.  

There’d be no meal,
or cozy bed,
no cordial chat 
with a roof overhead.
I turned about
to take my leave,
then heard a young girl
on the village green.

“Hello,” I said,
“May I ask your name?”
“Daisy,” she said,
in a factual way.
“You must be 
the town flower,” I quipped
She frowned at me 
and said, “I don’t get it.” 

I thought that 
an odd response from the lass;
her comment and solitude
took me aback.
“The flower,” I offered
“your names are the same.”
She glowered at me
like I’d misplaced my brain. 

“What’s a flower?”
she asked without guile. 
Flabbergasted,
I grasped for a while!
As we were surrounded 
by blooms of all kinds,
I foundered to fathom
her beauty-blind mind. 

“I’m allowed out
one day a year!
To dance with the colors 
that play out here.
But nobody’s taught me 
the names of things.
It’s so I’ll be safe
if it stops again.” 

“If what stops?”
I persevered.
“The falling water.
It disappeared.
The air-of-every-color
stopped.
And all the fancy grasses
dropped. 

“The priest said 
pretty went away
because we didn’t 
pray his way.
The omens told him
we should hide,
be afraid
and stay inside. 

“It came back though!
A moon ago!
But then he said 
we’d couldn’t know
if it would stay
or stop again,
so we should pray.
And not to sin. 

“He said beauty 
always dies.
So when it came back,
we stayed inside.
It’s so we won’t be 
sad in case 
the pretty leaves
and stays away.” 

I told her,
“It may go away,
but,
it’s here in this moment, Daisy.
That’s where Beauty
breathes and lives,
so grab the chance
to be with it.” 

I plucked some posies
that waved in the breeze,
“Daisy, meet daisies,
you’re named after these.”
Her face showed feelings
that pleased me to read,
then she glowed,
with remembering! 

Daisy beamed,
then light as can be
ran excitedly
calling, “Grammy! Grandy!”
She rounded a corner 
with no glance back,
so I carried on sauntering
back to my kayak. 

I unmoored, to float
out into the flow,
made sure of the current,
and started to go
when I heard a great stirring
from back where I’d been.
I turned to look,
and what I saw then?… 

Doors flying open,
shutters flung wide,
eyes adjusting 
to bright sunshine.
The lanes, the gardens 
the green, the square…
were filling with villagers 
everywhere! 

Everyone bending 
to pick a bouquet,
as if they’d been hidden away
till today.
Couples embraced
and kissed in the square!
Kids chased rainbows 
in mist-prismed air! 

I recognized Daisy 
from out of the crowd,
leading two 
elderly people through town,
down past the strand 
to the edge of the stream,
where she pointed her daisy-filled hand
at me. 

Showers of villagers
followed behind
with flowers and smiles
and wide-opened eyes.
They waved me goodbye,
I kindly waved back,
then flowed downstream,
and that was that. 

That was that,
at least so it seemed… 

I read a news story 
the other day 
entitled 
The Planet’s Happiest Place.
I thought maybe Sweden, 
but no, not at all…
it’s that town 
between the stream and the falls! 

They say He came 
from the mist one day,
enlightened them all 
and then drifted away.
They call him Mist Master,
Namer of Things,
the Kayak Messiah
who came from the stream. 

They’d built him a temple.
They’d written a prayer!
They’d stood up a statue
in their little town square
of him raising a bloom
in kaleidoscope air,
to the Daisy he’d picked
as his gospel bearer. 

“Do they mean me?”
I pondered aloud. 
“I just got hungry
and saw a town,
met a young girl
on the green near the square
and reminded her
of what was already there.” 

You ask of the priest 
and his doctrine of fear?
I have your answer,
it’s printed right here; 
he chose to be
a poet of hope,
spreading the message
of Nowness, and Flow. 

Seems we need not
prophesize,
sit beneath a tree
or give sight to the blind.
The gift of kindness
will remind us…
we’re our own 
enlightened messiahs. 

Lee DeNoya - Taos, Feb 2022