Little Brook of Childhood

Little brook of childhood, your water flowed and stayed always cold, I traveled far to reach that scented, steep hill as winter ended with chill. And listening to the babbling sound, mist rose from the rocks and ground... it seemed to make music without an instrument, in fact, I wrote my first hymn at that very moment. Like those travelers who took the same road, I found it exciting to walk and move forward... to be amazed at the magnificence and realize the divine hand that made Nature so very nice. Little brook of childhood, you were as precious as a friend's word; drooping willows seemed angels descending with wide wings, offering shade to those who came to fill up their empty canteens. Written by Andrew Crisci on September 25, 2011 for Francine Robert's contest, " Flowing Water "