A
stream whose
banks are
fringed
with
alder,
a name
itself
that
sings like
water
as it
runs –
runs over
lichen
covered
sandstone
and rocks
that give her
a
gurgling song.
Her tea
colored
tannin is
laced
with a wetness
she holds
in a story
that lay
among the
rocks
nestled among her
cool and
chilly pockets.
A story
tucked away
in the
tight little pinecones
of the
hemlock -
stalwartly
refusing
to open
until the sun
lulls
them to split
with
breath of
warmth
and light,
in the
tiny little needles
of the
hemlock -
desperately
clinging
to the
branches
against
the ice
and wind
pulling
at them
to fall.
The wind
whistles
through
these stories,
the cold
settles on
your
shoes as you
listen to
them. There
is a
stepping away from
the daily
grind
when you
give yourself
to her
allure and sacrifice
yourself
upon the
surface
of her flow.
I could
give myself in a
thousand,
thousand lifetimes
to the
relentless beauty that
rises when
first my eye catches
an
infinitesimal waft of
her
luscious banks,
and my
ear is given touch
of her
cold wetness.
She
defies our senses and
goes
right for the heart.
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