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The old stream doesn’t burble 
like it used to in Spring’s past -
rambunctious in youth  wild it ran
racing the sun and chasing the moon
splashing  leaping  and  tumbling 
over, down and around  rocks in its shallow channel -
giving it rollicking laughter

The old stream doesn’t play with sunlight 
like it used to in Summer’s past -
when unending yellow dahlia days gentled its flow 
allowing for reflections and explorations around each bend
and for savoring saffron skies and plum-shaded shadows 
that seemingly stretched on forever -
giving it invincibility

Autumn saw a change in the old stream 
under a herald of goldenrod fireworks
waters waned becoming tired and tamed 
its banks and shoaly bed littered with Fall’s golds and reds;
a once lilting voice grew quieter
as nocturnal rhythms trespassed towards winter’s solstice
and under the cover of darkness 
a cool moon stole the stream’s slow dance with the sun -
giving it vulnerability

The old stream remembered not the goldenrod days
nor the purpose of its earthly path -
Winter charged in on his frosty horse robust with rime
and laid his icy hands upon the sleepy stream - 
draining its dreams of a pulse beneath a frozen facade..

but from below the stilled surface a silver current flowed free
… giving the stream eternity.


Susan Ashley 
April 12, 1019


~ First Place ~
Premiere Contest: 2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 23
Sponsor: Mark Toney


*Rime: frost formed on cold objects by the rapid freezing of water vapor in clouds or fog.*

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