If I take one word of wisdom from the glistening stream of life,
and put it to my lips,
to feel its touch there:
(Is it a smooth pearl?)
to observe its wonder,
(Or is it a hard diamond,
catching the light with many facets?)
I will have that much more wisdom.

But there are many stones in that stream of life,
and I fish at them with a large hook.
I count myself lucky and wealthy
to pull in each splendored piece.
I gather them,
and hold them
and observe how varied each is,
with its own particular speckle
or wrinkle.
I am a fisher in the stream of life.
I am up to my knees in it.
I go not with the current,
I am the current.
All that I hold is in me.

All at once,
this paradox, this seeming mystery.
If I be my own star within the larger circle of stars,
a picture once unfolds
and refolds,
manifesting and remanifesting,
and then folds again.
"Say you are not at the beginning point,
you are at the middle point,
you are always at the middle point."

Is this a mystery to hold to one's lips,
and then consume?
Say it is,
and the path awaits,
that rich stream of life
flows,
through me,
beside me,
beyond me.
I go fishing,
I go fishing in the stream of life
and many treasures I find.