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.