Lost.
I begin as a brook
in distant hills
which starts
as droplets clinging
together passes through
rills between tiny ridges, spills
down small land-slides, tumbles in
miniature waterfalls joining streamlets
as ripples and sliding I hurry
over stones and pebbles, breaching
ridged beds where frothing in bubbles
I rush to mingle with deeper waters
but stop to chatter under willows
singing soprano before altering
my tune to a baritoned river.
Then no more warbling in creeks
for little me so bowling slower I greet
older waters converging like tenors
in choral excitement, drowning my
cry in wild ocean-voiced roars belonging
to power when wide-mouth basso
changes my trilling to deep-sea songs.
Yet I will ever
know myself
as a brook
that springs
from hill-height
dashing between
granite\'s nooks
and crannies
to delight
in brimming
over rocky beds
where my hum
is welcomed
by mossy pebbles
and where birds come
to drink and wet
feet and feathers
in my warm shallows
before I roll on
having to settle
for more water duets
and lost then
my previous whispers,
forgotten soft solos
of clear flowing liquid
sunk in deafening
fortissimo as oceans
own the loudest bellow.