The Sound of the Stream [Poem]

A poem about a sound.

The myriad musics made by man,
sound not smoother or sweeter than
the wondrous wild waters so pure
their merry melody is my soul’s cure.

I walk in the woods when I’m weary,
my heart is torn, my eyes are teary,
My mind’s mired in maddening knots
and bellows out its blackest thoughts.

Then my ear embraces that enrapturing noise,
the stream’s serenade, and I regain my poise.
All worldly worries washed away,
Inner repose restored for today.

No harp strung,
no bell rung,
no chirping bird,
or spoken word.

Of all that’s earthly and audible alone reigns supreme,
the ever-rolling, freely offered sound of the stream.

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I write poems and essays about spirituality, racialism, and nature. If you’d like my weekly writings directly into your mailbox, consider subscribing. Subscriptions are free, but for $5 a month you can become a paid member which gives you access to exclusive content for paying subscribers only.