The Summer Brook

Slow to self-esteem, the brook,
which is the least of the seas,
conjures nothing, but a clear
meanderer traipsing through
deer country.

I cross to reach the blackberries
wild with news to report. And I
cross the brook again to head
homeward, my feet washed by
silent amble. I look down at my
pail of sweets,

soon to be a pie lover’s affair.

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