The river is a spirit, flowers grow
Along her banks and house their fairies in
The folds of leaves and petals -- yet we know
These things are primitive supersition.
The car won't start -- you yell at it and hit
The steering wheel. When your computer freezes
And you lose all your work, you tell at it.
Don't they have spirits much like summer breezes?
It's no more primitive -- the spirit of
The rock, the spirit of the car -- we bring
To life important things, that which we love --
In those we always find a soul to sing.