Walking up from Hay Creek  

Before I leave the cool shade
of towering oaks, beech & 
maple; of lesser hardwood trees,
I stop to cross the rusty strand
of barbwire fence.

The flowing spring where I will quince
my thirst flows through a pipe. I stand
over the clear water;  bow on knees
& hands as though to pray &

I drink.
If you were with me,
all I would need to quiet my thirst
for love that endures like this spring
would be for you to drink with me.

Holding on to the memory
of love comes easily, a thing,
as poet, I transform into words, versed
across; down the page. You are within me,
but I am without you & thus I drink.