if time itself could be seen
this is how it would appear
stopped and moving all at once
Physics At The Brook’s Edge
Flow
I long
to take life’s curves
as gracefully as the winter brook
Everlasting Ever Changing Unions
stone, water, branch
fallen and frozen, rushing and static
married this winter day
Mop Of Cold
bent to the river by cold
held to new work by ice
servitude of sweeping
April Days
when the sky
is fast
and undecided
The Curvaceousness Of Water
specific
in her direction
indirect in her approach
Water Wanders Through The Seasons
recent snow
on old ice pack
the brook fast with melt
Reverence
bowed to winter
seeing past reflection
into the future
The Chairs’ View
sit awhile
and watch spring
wander over
Sleep Over
April snow spent the night
the running brook hopes
to escort her back home
Breaking Free
verdant with spring
the brook rushes
toward sunlight
Cold Growth Forest
the brook and the branch
grew a forest of ice pines
Freezing Falls
still rushing
as the surface solidifies
Water Wanders
the brook meanders
through the woods
Repeat Repeat
then develops into sleet
so goes winter: repeat, repeat
David Hockney’s Water
in the small brook
his paint brush paints
Dog Days
to run in the brook
and dash through sun and shade
Covered Bridge
who will be
the first winter traveler
to cross the still running brook?
Savor The Day
some summer fun
cooling off the hooves
while strolling the brook
Homeward Bound
water’s purpose
to be ever
rushing home
The Brook
still running
before cold takes hold
and water stills
Intuition
at the water’s edge
in a world of green
the sense of being seen
Permission
as ice gives its form to water
permission is granted to wander
Running Brook
still running
the brook flees
winter’s hold
Fog’s Clarity
the future disappeared
along with the horizon
leaving the delicate determination of now
The Migration of Melt
the brook breaks free
and runs for the river
longing to unite with the sea
Lingering
baubles above the brook
just out of deer’s reach
last year’s apples
Jacob’s Brook
water runs to the long river
singing the final refrains of its song
before it is silenced by winter
Place
by the brook
under the apple tree
a good place to grow
Water’s Way
Cold that is no longer snow
makes a mad dash down the brook
rushing towards spring, trying to catch summer.