I went back to Old Seventy Creek to see
        if it still was the poem I found when I
        was young and searching.

        I began at the point where poetry
        would begin–inside the cave where no sky,
        or planets or stars could distract from the searching.

        Inside that darkness of the Sinks
        as it was called by that name from historical
        times,

        Rhymes
        flowed through with  sounds,
        begging to be organized in lines–

         as poets know full well or one thinks
         poets should know such truth well
         that lines are made for words.

          I did not need to leave the darkness
           to realize that Old Seventy Creek
           was poetry, lines,

            stanzas, simile, or metaphor
            released in its flow.