Muted

Like a condemned river only flowing when the Sun's warming eyes are turned away
Or an ocean whose tide will not turn in the presence of the Moon;
The damned creek turns stagnant while the drying lake hungers . . .

Is it because the Sun is so demanding of the water?
The river cries to flow, loves to flow, fights to move along.
Is Moon so cold that the waves' crashing must still?
The waters beg to break upon the shore, implore the sands to pull them up!
Is the damn so coarse, so unyielding so as to choke the brooks' kind babble?
The fragile waters live to feed the lake, cry out to serve their love . . .

The purest desire of the waters is to quench, to feed, to form the Earth
They miss their younger days, when rock and air and shore alike welcomed their cool touch,
When Earth's arms opened wide, the Sun's love nurtured the rippling, pristine surface
When Moon's kind pulls were playful tugs, gentle suggestions of serenity . . .

The rivers' path too many times has been cut off; brutal violent amputation of its life force
Has killed its trusting flow,
Has dried its faithful beds,
Has quieted is passion; its power dormant in a muted soul.

Ocean's strength was once matched only by her beauty,
Her mercy rang out as predictable tides glorying the sunsets,
Sparkling for the Moon,
She once danced, and took lovers, and championed the Earth . . .

But sickness has torn her apart, heated her cool composure, weakened her strength,
She hesitates to break upon the shore, refuses to hold safe the treasures of Man.
She rages silently at the pollution of her soul, thirsting for a better part of herself.

The child-creek, keeper of creatures and critters and embodiment of trust
Has been damned up, forced into stale oblivion,
Starved of playful bubbling along the countryside,
Terrified to carve another unsure path along the crumbling mountainside,
She huddles alone inside herself for warmth, wishing for more innocent days.
She cannot remember how to laugh.

No fault of the loving, ever-endearing Earth, or passionate Sun, or wise and watchful Moon
Their patient vigil is soft encouragement to the disenchanted waters,
Igniting in them a flame, a grim memory of life.
With time, perhaps, the river will remember how to flow
With warm attentions, healing words, with Father Time's merciful movement
Perhaps a wave will dance upon the shore again.
Perhaps one day a child may stumble upon a laughing creek,
And perhaps She will carry child's sticks and leaves upon her back, playing once again.

So shine on, precious, sacred Sun,
Lead and guide and gently urge the tide to awaken from its muted slumber,
Patient Moon.
And, solid, loyal, enduring Earth,Remind the streams that you are there – embrace them,
Decorate them once again with your bounty . . .

Reminding water of her resilience
Will be the greatest love
In time