She always stops at streams
Where sticks make waters slow
To gently free each pent up pool
And watch the river flow
The helping makes her happy
A humble place to start
To live a fairly useful life
She always does her part

But pools of sorrow rise
Should purpose cease to be
The autumn leaves of loneliness
That fall from failing trees
The river swells uncertainly
A flood of doubt and fears
Unable now to pull the plug
Release the well of tears

Then wanders home a woodland waif
Where sticks make waters slow
To gently free this pent up pool
And watch the river flow

Undamn you

pct