Red sunrise east of Old Seventy Creek

Poet, Old Seventy Creek, rejoice;
your song of love slips
out of mists on this morning.

I have heard your words. They are warning
and joy. My memory drips
your waters. My voice

is your current’s flow.
My images are your rapids.
My lines are your course,

your drought, flood, winding, your source,
your spreading out and narrowing. My eyelids
cannot erase where you go.

Mentor, my inspiration is also a woman.
She is beautiful the way sunset and sunrise
are beautiful. Teach me how you mirror skies.