growing up and spending time at my grandparents
there was a creek, much like this, that ran down
behind the two front pastures. there used to be an old
homestead there, for flowers grow that wouldn't
normally be there ~ and before that, an indian village.
we used to find arrow heads and old pieces of pottery
it was a creek my grandmother and i would hike up
our pants legs, she her dress and apron, and walk until
we met the dirt road on one end of the pastures.
we'd sit on the sand and watch what floated down.
leaves, sticks, sometimes turtles would venture out
and always crayfish and little bitty fish
as i grew older and commissioners worked and reworked
the dirt road, the creek became muddier and filled
with waste and trash from man. beavers built a dam.
the land, no longer kept back by my grandfather,
began to encroach upon the creek banks and the creek
became smaller. i grew older, and no longer small
there are times we wish childhood could last longer
that memories could whisk us back just one more day
one more walk, one more hat made with daisies
but then, to do that, we'd lose part of today
and that would be a tragedy
for today are tomorrow's memories and i
wouldn't miss this season we are now in
with it's vibrant colors and cooling temps
letting us know that a season is on it's way
that will slow us down and create a quiet
sense of hibernation, the time of rest
the creek will ice over, weeds will die, and quiet
will be broken only be a cracking icy branch
and the memories of my youth will remain
as vividly as the colors of autumn, all i have to do
is close my eyes, lift my face to the breeze
and let my mind roam back. and back. and back.
