From small beginnings

The stream finds
its cascading rhythm,

swirling past branches,
who hold out all the
memories of good timing
in those certain buds of spring.

A flowing staircase,
fresh, over the rocks,
come tumbling
syncopated chords,
and it has played this out,
oh, many times before,
but never in quite
the same way.

How it loves
the collected volumes
of these seasonal rains.

For they are a means
to run faster and further,
and to sail a leaf
to a new found land
(it only dreamt of
once upon a time,
when it was up in its tree)

Ever onward the waters zigzag,
often with the angle of a lute.

Retuning by degrees, it remerges
to be heard once again,
becoming the folk song
it was surely meant to be.

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