AT THE CREEK

by her creek of solitude the ravens are calling
and over the smooth rocks water is falling
flowing from the mountains where moss and sedge
caress with softness the roots and ledge
beneath branches of cedar and birch bower
shine the light towards the forest flower
more quiet than dreams and softer than ringing
the birds with their zen notes are singing

the high-voiced chickadees feeding at day time
they whistle summer songs of winter-time
when the raven's shadow lurks and branches hurtle
the chickadees fly for cover under branches of myrtle
when rain and rays of sun grow together
they sing with Buddha not to worry about weather
and below the rainbow of feathers unfolden
there is yellow and green like golden

she sits by the creek remembering childhood
listening to the sounds and colors of the wildwood
holding the silence of youth without fashion
words of the beats mixed with heartbeats of passion
rock and blues strung together with laughter
like the chickadees above in the forest rafter
far from the city and that black alley
here in the moment above the mountain valley
not caring or being sore of any losses
sitting at the creek staring at the mosses


credit photo Wayne Pitchko