AT THE LITTLE BROOK’S WATERFALL

I’ll never know where it comes from,
Back in the hills somewhere, but . . .
Here I am again — sharing our Spring again —
Standing beside this little brook’s waterfall.
Oh, the tales carried in its flow over stones,
Along its bed and by the banks close to three feet apart.
I don’t know where it comes from, but . . .
I know where it loses itself in the river;
And with the river to rivers and into the sea:
Some parts rising again in clouds for rain&dew.
It’s always here, where I’m standing,
With its little waterfall —
The falls to my left and close to my right a pool of minnows,
That’s always there come April.
I’ve never seen it freeze in winter
Or cease to flow its rippling song,
Howsoever lessened by the seasons.
Here I am again — sharing our Spring again —
Standing where I’ve stood many a year.
My wife and little dog used to come with me.
Both gone now.
Little brook and waterfall persist same as always.
I don’t know where it comes from, but
It’s always here singing tales and songs
From it’s gentle-flowing over the stones,
Along its bed and by the banks close to three feet apart.
I don’t know where it comes from.
I love this little brook with its little waterfall.
I sure hope it will still flow here, when I, too,
Am gone into the sea — some parts —
To become rain&dew;
Maybe, in time, to join, whatever the season,
Where this little brook begins — somewhere back in the hills.
Some others standing here, another time, will love it,
Hear its song, feel the magic in its waterfall of tales —
The promise of the minnows . . . but also,
Never to know where it comes from, but . . .
Back in the hills somewhere.

mdok — 4/6/19