Sunday, December 4, 2011

Wandering Down Along The Creek Bed.

Wandering down along the creek bed,
twisting and turning through the wood—the leaves slashing
and thrashing aloud, confused as they tumble down.

Brittle paths of brown and orange and red, crackling underfoot,
volume pitched high and low under the strain of my pounds
and the stride of my sensitive gallop.

Wandering down along the creek bed,
the stream breathes and its mighty voice echoes off of the trees
and bounces up into the sky, losing itself amidst gray cloud.

The water looks like it feels cold,
it runs slowly but constantly, height changed by the wind and the rain.
And there, in the middle, floats a single green leaf.

A lilly pad, plucked from a tree by another.
It is still alive! One wonders how such a thing remains
long after love and life have abated, replaced by seasons of doubt and regret.

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