A Brook

A brook flows through the land I share.
I've spent my eighty years with it there.
I know its every whim and mood.
It's brought me peace, wonder...even food.

In spring it has been a wild thing
roaring and swelling, often jumping.
Threatening independence to its banks,
yet always returning with my thanks.

![](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmXmjWu8YeBv5ETQkjyQzCrQ6qvyGR9wZ2MKpmHcHDW3nL/image.png)

In summer it is kind and ever gentle,
sliding and slipping and sentimental,
Bringing sweet life to all of my crops.
When dry, it runs low, but never stops.

As the winter snows begin to fly
Something quite odd will catch my eye,
Eddies grow tired and pools pacific stand,
White edges encroach-- invaders from the land.

For months it is there, still, but changed,
In its winter blankets it seems rearranged.
Now we, it's visitors, do the slipping and sliding,
As the secrets beneath are kept still and hiding.  

The hills above from whence it flows,
Likewise grow still in the winter's throes,
Sentinels guarding their wayward daughter,
With their frozen freshets of soon-emerged water.  

![](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmURgcbLETt16GY2GHBEPaXmLxBH9SeSk9eLAtuyUg9WW4/image.png)

When the snows start to soften and the days to lengthen
I crouch best I can to greet my old friend.
They will bury me soon 'long the banks of this brook,
And my grandsons will come, on occasion, and look.

I hope they will cherish this land and these hills,
Creating their own memories of nature's soft thrills,
And race these banks as once did I,
A lifetime ago, so very nearby. 
 

by Steve Martin
at Amity,  2-21-16