Spectator

My river does not replenish itself.
I sit by it every day, pants folded up to my knees,
Feet trailing, making patterns in its flow.
I hold my notebook aloft, teaching it all about precipitation.

“The sun steals your water, you see. It whittles you away,
Little by little, little caring for your plight.
It is up to you to put up a fight.”

“Yes,” says the river, “I will, I shall, I must.
But first,
Let me soothe your weary feet.
See how they are cracked.”

I sit by my river every day,
Teaching it to make friends with clouds.
“They will return all the sun steals from you,” I say,
“All you have to do is ask.”

“Yes,” says the river, “I will, I shall, I must.
But first,
Let me nourish your parched orchard.
Or else, how will you eat?”

I sit by my river every day,
Bringing larger and larger books,
Raising my voice higher, so that I may reach its depleted flow.
It can no longer reach my feet, and sheds a tear at their state.

“You must replenish yourself,” I plead,
“If not for you then for me. See how my feet suffer.
See how the orchard wilts.”

The rivulet bubbles sorrowfully by,
Each day sapping its voice.
It gives me no reply, or if it does,
I cannot hear it.

I sit at the barren banks every day,
Remembering its cheerful babble.
My feet aching with memories,
My orchard withered in mourning.

It’s cracked sand-bed stares back at me, vacant,
All evidence of its former vitality
Swiftly succumbing to the relentless sun.

She loved me true, my vacant river.
And now, I cannot walk, and I cannot eat.
I will wage war against the sun every day,
And, following in her path, I, too will succumb.