The Stream That Remains

I once saw a stream winding through the marsh like a silver thread
a quiet lifeline pulsing through reeds and grasses,
carving its story into the land,
nourishing all it touched.

Herons stood tall in its shallows,
fish flickered like fleeting thoughts in mirrored pools,
and even the trees leaned in,
as if drawn to the song of its flowing heart.

But time, as it always does, began to undo.
Seasons circled, storms reshaped the earth,
and the rains became uncertain.
The stream, still giving, began to fade.

Its banks, once softened by movement,
turned brittle beneath the sun.
It no longer coursed with confidence,
only shimmered, thin and tired, under a weight too bright.

Yet around it, life thrived.
The marsh thickened, green and buzzing.
Flowers bloomed, insects hummed, birds sang.
The world it had nourished marched on,
seemingly unaware that the stream
its origin—was vanishing.

It seemed a quiet injustice:
to give so much, only to go unnoticed.

But the stream did not protest.
It had never known rage.
It curved gently through the earth,
holding its form even as it emptied.

In stillness, it caught the sky more clearly.
In silence, it became memory—
a path of light, etched in the land.

There are seasons like this in life.

Times when we feel forgotten,
spent, unnoticed—
while the world grows vibrant around us.

We wonder if we still matter,
if the work, the love, the effort we gave
meant anything at all.

But like the stream,
we’ve shaped the land.

Our path holds the imprint of presence.
Even in quietness, we remain
a thread that still reflects the sky.

Not every chapter roars.
Some whisper, some are silent.
But all matter.

Behind The Lens