Wednesday, June 24, 2020

The Creek is my place...

Today's thoughts brought to you by Mary Oliver 

Creeks 

The dwindled creeks of summer,
Unremarkable except,
Down pasture, through woodlot,


There are so many
And keep such a pure sound
In each roiling thread,
Trickle past the knees of trees,


Dropped leaves, salamanders,
Each one scrubbing and cooling
The pebbles of its bed.

My back to the hickory, I sit 
Hours in the damp wood, listening.
It never ebbs.
Its music is the shelf for other sounds:
Birds, wind in the leaves, some tumbled stones.
After awhile
I forget things, as I have forgotten time.
Death, love, ambition ---the things that drive
Like pumps in the big rivers.

My heart
Is quieted, at rest. I scarcely feel it.
Little rivers, running everywhere,
Have blunted the knife. Cool, cool,
They wash above the bones.






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