Beside the mossy stones, the brook does flow, A silver thread through emerald fields it weaves. It murmurs secrets to the willows low, And dances where the sunlit foliage cleaves. The ancient pines stand guard on either side, Their branches sketching patterns on the stream. The water carries petals on its tide, Like scattered dreams within a tranquil dream. A traveler pauses on the worn wood bridge, To hear the water’s everlasting song— A timeless, gentle, knowing sort of pledge, That to this...
