By a Stream

My life Is a bit of water Rolling over stones in a brook. It folds and it bends Traveling for yards on end — It turns and it toils Like sand running off The palm of my hand. Then it stops In a pond downstream. In truth, the brook is in a meadow — A vast wilderness of green Canvased below a teal sky. My world is a dense forest Of grass and rocks and fallen logs But my life Is a bit of water.