Why so angsty, wriggling brook,
writhing in the stormy breaks? What wakes
you up and rubs you down and cracks
you whipped ’til foaming at the mouth?

Is it the heathen stones like Jericho
beneath you? Or Maytime rains beating as you
run?

Is it the unknown under far as
stars can see? Or splashing feet skipping
in your flow—?

But no, no!—don’t you see, don’t you
know how polished pebbles come from stone
and rain’s what gives you grow?

Don’t you feel the happy patter,
the playful hop, the gilded top-
of-worldness tripping over
time?

Muse with that, too-serious streams
and wonder where the world would ride
and who would drink with you beside
if you should up today and dry—