The Brook

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The brook carves a swath

caressingly through the park.

To the west, white balloons

ascend gracefully,

blending with clouds,

tranquil and serene.

To the east, red and black

fireworks rocket skyward

until sparks burst

in a tempestuous descent.

Two competing visions

of how to experience my future.

 

The brook too wide

to cross in one stride

only a jagged bridge

to take me side to side.

If I leave the park,

I lose everything.

 

I dip one foot

into the chill waters,

follow the mossy rocks,

twisting with the brook.

North or south,

it never blends both lands.

 

Its murmurs mock

and cajole me into choosing

one shore or the other.

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Voice Recording

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