When I was six, I went down to the stream
Splashing and swimming
Making mud pies in my big red bucket.
The frogs and crayfish kept me company
And I would catch them and set them free.
The water moved on.
So did time.

When I was nine, I went down to the stream.
Now too old for mud pies,
I skipped stones across the water.
Plink
Plunk
Plop.
In the winter, I went skating.
The thin ice cracked beneath my feet.
Under the ice, the water moved on.
So did time.

For many years, I did not go down to
the stream.
My wooded refuge left abandoned.
The trees grew, unnoticed.
The frogs croaked, unheard.
The ice remained, unbroken.
For many years, the stream heard no laughter.
Heard no child shouting.
Throughout those years, the water moved on.
So did time.

And now, an old man, I go down to
the stream.
My feet weary from the many miles walked,
My eyes weary from the many sights seen,
My heart weary from the many pains felt.
As I dip my feet in the clear water, I am the six-year-old boy making mud pies.
I am the nine-year-old, skipping stones.
I am once more dragging myself home, soaked and chilled from skating.
I know not what lies at the end of
my stream – God, emptiness, or
something else,
But the water is moving on,
Time is moving on.
And now, I will move on.