The Old Stream and Seasons Past

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.*