In the place
where water runs,
magic shivers and hums
and shakes the trees
with its incantations.

The stream is a cauldron
of leaves, moss and bark.
It blooms with dark clouds
of mud when rust-
colored stones are lifted
away from the creek bed
by the toe of your boot.

But it is your bare feet
the water longs to touch.
It asks
for your fingers
to try to interfere
with its persistent flow.

If you stay long enough,
this place becomes a voice
in your head.
It whispers
words you’ve heard
in dreams. It tells birds
to swoop down
the brooky path beside you,
because you are
and always have been
the same.

And maybe
if you’re very lucky,
a toad will pause and look
you in the eye from a bumpy rock.
Maybe a crane will sweep down
into your shade
and almost anoint you
with her wings.

It will wait until you’re ready,
this oracle,
chanting spells softly,
listening for your breath,
offering vines and roots
for a staircase,
as you climb down
from the usual path.

—

Beth Politsch is a storyteller, poet and copywriter based in Lawrence, Kansas. She currently creates content for Hyland Software and writes children’s books and poetry in her free time.