The Stream

There is a stream you were born in.

You didn’t know you were in it.  You sang,

rhymed wild sounds, drew pictures 

of a grinning boy with flames shooting from his hair.  

Then over the slow accumulation of days

people tugged at you, fished you out

into unfamiliar streams, their murky waters.  

At first you fought.  But their tackle

was too powerful, led to slow deadening.

You didn’t even know you were out, or when.  

Still you survived.  Got older.  Matured.  

Memory of your stream tugs at you, an adult.  

Always there, a stream is yours.

Always buoyant, it will bear you up.

No one can dam it any more, 

except you.  Listen to its good voice 

as it rushes over rocks.