CREEK BANK IN THE RAIN
I realize now that it will never happen
again, and have forgotten the year
the creek rolled rafts of leaves like logs
before it, waves of brown sycamore
two or three feet high. John Vincent
was there to meet the creek upstream
where he once lived, celebrating
the all-night and all-day rain,
howling up the canyon at the storm.
We’d pass it in the pickup to meet it again –
like walking towards the ridge to see
the moon rise several times a night –
met the neighbors and kids, daring Katy
to race across and back without getting wet
when she was six or seven. Primal
and basic, even carnal in the downpour
that streaked your face like tears
as the creek gushed beside us and we kissed.
It will roll again when we are old
remembering – yet never the same
raindrops or leaves left to churn our flesh.
MERRY CHRISTMAS from Dry Creek!!