Gushing white, secrets within,
Seldom intense, seldom serene,
Meandering as if on whim.
Cluttered but perceived clean.
It cuts through the silence; calm
Trying to make its way to the end.
Sometimes cold, and sometimes warm
Slowing down before the bend.
But take a moment, imagine.
What if it were a lake, not stream.
Conducive not competitive, sanguine.
Stationary but glorious; a dream.
An unstoppable force, water’s might
A stream can’t reflect the perfection around,
Although the lake has no concluding site,
Better to stand still than ignore the surround.