The Prospector, a Poem

"The Prospector"

By Lou Jonas

A brand new day's at a virgin mountain stream
Where every minute corresponds to sand, or treasure's gleam.
I operate, so patiently, the gold-pan of my mind
To wash out worthless particles, until the prize I find.

And when the stream's completely worked,and I retire once more
The glowing memories increase my happy store.
And thus I find a peace of mind, though I'm hardened miser-
My hoard of of gold will not be stolen, and I'm happier and wiser.
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(Dad actually was a prospector for a bit, while trying his hand at being a mountain man in northern California. He lived in a friend's cabin and trapped furs. This poem makes me think of the Lord as a prospector, and each of us a panful of silt. He swishes us around with the waters of life, to see if any gold may appear. Some of us may prove to have no gold in us at all, and we'll be cast back into the stream of judgment. The good Lord knows that He has swished me around for quite some time! I hope He finds a few nuggets worth keeping.)