The flow

The flow

Every year I appear to bring you joy, maybe a tear or two but with me they can't be found lying on the ground.
You guessed it, I am that gentle brook hidden in the little nook near the farm.

I am that flow that those high mountains know, they give me life when the Sun melts their ice. I come alive in the Spring and flash my crystal waters far down below. Come on, don't be shy, dip a toe in as I trickle by.
I love singing my babbling song, gurgle, gurgle, but be careful not to wet your girdle!

I love to make people sigh, my cool water is the reason why.
I listen to your whispers at sunset when you lay down by my side, I hide them in my deep pools where they will abide.

There is a nip in the air, something I fear with winter, I know that my death is drawing near.
I must not linger as I can't feel my finger, everywhere I place them in the sand they disappear from my hand.
I must leave for now, please don't grieve and stare at my dry parched bed, I'll be back when the Meadowlark's sing and the Pussywillow's announce the Spring.

Then once again you will hear my rush as at your feet I gush.
My little rivulets again I will cast side to side, in them the minnows love to hide.

The stones in my bed turn green with envy while over them I glide, their moss seems to wave goodbye.
I love when the Lord changed me into a fine wine, I had no say as he is the Divine.

Author Ken, November 26, 2015