THE BROOK

It was just a little trickle that wound through the woods,   
a singing, gurgling, babbling brook struggling to stay free.

A lovely thing.
A calming creature.

Her banks supported wildflowers in the early spring.
Her bosom nurtured water life, the bird, the tree, and the bee.

A  private place for an interface.
The perfect spot to meditate.

In times of drought, her charges go without a drink.
The pain is felt,  
There is no complaining.
Only silence.

When summer showers brought relief.
                  Too much rain summoned a torrent.
A tantrum roared, raced and implored relief
for a trickle that morphed into a flood.

Showers at last ceased and
rain clouds free, flew far away.

The sun returned and comforted nature so bereft.
        For this little trickle that once wound through the woods,
so bubbly and so free is gone and will nevermore be.