The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. The willow dips her branches low to catch the fleeting sound, While dragonflies in iridescent hues dance all around. An old man sits upon the bank, his fishing line cast wide, With patience born of years that flow like this eternal tide. He knows the water’s secret songs, the stories it can tell— Of love and loss, of summer suns, and winter’s frosty spell. The minnows dart like silver...
The Whispering Brook
A gentle stream meanders through the mossy stones, Whispering tales of forgotten times in soft, watery tones. The willow dips her branches low to catch the fleeting sound, While dragonflies in iridescent hues dance all around. An old man sits upon the bank, his fishing line cast wide, With patience born of years that flow like this eternal tide. He knows the water’s secret songs, the stories it can tell— Of love and loss, of summer suns, and winter’s frosty spell. The minnows dart like silver...
