Creek Poem

Green-tinted water rushes and rolls

Fluidly down the stream like liquid glass.

It flows under the bridge, over the rocks,

Around the gentle bend. The snow

On the riverbanks is a frame

To the transparent liquid,

Displaying the serene lapping water

As a painting.

It seems a harsh sound at first,

The rushing, crashing, eroding power

Of the water on stones sounds

Like a percussion symphony.

However, the longer listened to,

It transforms into a soothing

Piece of music, until the hearer

Finally uncovers the bubbling laughter

Of the water’s song.

The water is not the only voice

In this choir. The wind sings as it rustles

The branches of sleeping trees.

Whistling, it moves through the woods,

Sending snowflakes flying through the air

In their own little dance.

The ice accumulated in the middle

Of the creek appears like shelves,

Ice layered as it formed and froze.

Rocks peek through at higher portions,

Creating little islands of white powder.

There are shadowy outlines

In the deeper portions of the creek,

As if only hinting the existence of rocks

And larger slabs of stone. 

The ice water is frigid, numbing fingertips

And liable to cause frostbite with its

Deceptively soft, smooth current.

The air is crisp, the sun warm, and the silence

Beyond the river creates an atmosphere of serenity.

The water smells like pines and winter,

Fresh and clean and crisp.

Dancing on the surface of the water,

Only penetrating to the rocks below

In the shallower sections of the creek bed,

The sun glistens.