A Stagnant Stream
waiting ...
The Stagnant Stream
She used to move freely
A rash rush rock tumbling torrent,
Gifted with the ability to cut through stone.
But now?
The current has stopped.
She is a glass of water
Left on the windowsill,
Turning flat and lukewarm.
The brilliant mind that ran in rivers
Is trapped in a stagnant, silent pool.
The Waning Tide
Her quick mind
Has been slowed by a thick room
Watching the water run down
Once joyous, rushing, alive
Tumbling over
And smoothing lifeless grey stones
Carving deep ledges into banksides
Now, with nowhere to be but gone.
She stays,
suspended in the silent
stiff
stillness.
The Closet
Happiness,
A colourful silk scarf,
Hung on a plastic hanger
In the dark, back corner,
Forgotten,
Hidden under winter coats
Of “maybe later”
And “not right now”.
She brushes past it every day,
Never stopping to notice
The vibrant colours
And its memories
Still waiting.
The Reckoning
But the thing about this stream
Is that it is still there,
Deep under the cold, grey mud.
Its gift has not vanished;
It just waits,
A hidden, glowing jewel
Beneath the dust.
A single, quiet breath
Could unlock the closet door,
And let the sunlight
Catch the fabric
Again.
©Thomas Crandall - 22 April 2026