(The following is an old one I'd written for Diverse Poets a few years ago. I've edited enough that it's actually quite new.)
"Yesterday is today's memory, and tomorrow is today's dream."
I decide to drive home the long way through curvy, dangerous roads, along mountainous cliffs so high I feel like a cloud. But gradually I descend into the calm security of level ground, where I impulsively turn into a desolate place that seems a dream misplaced. Friendly leaves wave me in, invite me to stay a while. I let myself be swallowed by the forest, greener than green.
I sit by a noisy stream with white foaming bubbles rushing then relaxing to caress the rocky floor before moving on. Does it know I'm watching? Because it does seem to show off for me. To be different from all other streams I've watched crashing, turning, sliding, crashing again into rocks so still. It keeps moving, sculpting its unique path, different from yesterday's waters. I feel a sense of expectation as I watch it flow towards its tomorrow.
The noisy stream rushes past
Green leaves wave good bye
Forest waits for winter's snow
(For Poets United.)