Creeks

Aging fall leaves,

mixed with broken twigs and crooked branches piled in spots,

collecting mud,

slowing the modest creek.

Percolating sounds 

as cold clear water 

dances over 

various darkened stones. 

An assortment 

of Maine trees hover

over a  winding water pathway, 

craving into earthy soil. 

Feel like a child playing,

unabashedly hunched over, 

grabbing the debris, 

finger nails gathering grime, 

Mud flinging while 

Throwing it towards 

The creeks edge 

as I did in my youth. 

Only then -

I’d make small dams 

of mud and stones 

to hold the water-

this time 

I want the water 

to run freely. 

It’s mother earth’s veins 

Which carriers oxygen 

from her heart to all life.