The creek isn’t cruel by not knowing my name.
Even though, I have known its name all my life.
On walks, I still follow its voice, soothed by its flow.
I won’t ask it to know me.
I’m okay with being an eternal stranger to it.
The creek doesn’t need my name
For me to hear its voice
Even during the loneliest times
When snow blankets its banks
And trees block the wind from its surface.
There are times when I wish
I could mimic the creek
But I know its name, taught to me by these very words
Which curve around boulders and tree limbs
Written by the currents of my own heart
|Kris on Mild Streak|
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