On the Constant Inconstancy of Creeks
What is it about creeks,
running flat and clear
that calms the mind
and fills the soul?
Where rivers are cultures
and streams are lifetimes
creeks are seasons
that shift and flow.
My first creek said, Come!
No need to knock or
wipe your feet. This
is our own place.
And during each new meet
like an eager love
it played with light
and shared its bed.
When winter came, it froze,
unable to speak,
only stare with
its frigid face.
I left it—no farewell.
My parents’ marriage
had flooded its
banks, thus altered,
requiring us to go
south, where the ocean
swallows rivers
that consume streams
that summon the creeks,
expecting lax service
from such shallow
quiet waters.
I now live in Midway
where the Lee’s Branch
nestles under
quarry grown trees.
When the world, as Wordsworth
said, is too much with
me, I visit
trusting its truth:
This is our time
and all is right
right now.
10 thoughts on "On the Constant Inconstancy of Creeks"
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This poem ebbs and flows with precision.
“Where rivers are cultures
and streams are lifetimes
creeks are seasons
that shift and flow.”
I just love this!
Thank you, H. A.!
Beautifully written. I tried picking a favorite stanza but it is so good i just can’t pick one ❤️❤️❤️
That is very kind, Ash! Thank you.
I like the juxtaposition in the title
Thank you, Pat. And I love the word juxtaposition! Appreciate you sharing it today.
Beautiful! The poem is shaped like a long winding river. Beautifully sustained throughout.
Very much appreciated, Linda!
Love so much “This/is our own place.” because it just describes a creek so well.
Thank you, Shawn. Creeks, to me, are special places that whisper instead of speak or shout.