CREEKSIDE

I stood on rocks

and stared downstream

at light

bouncing on

the shallow rapids.

A twig

tossed toward that flow

could leave my hand

and end

miles away.

Should I let myself

belong

to where I am

or to the stream’s

rich ride?

Surely downstream,

beneath tree limbs

arcing,

grow ferns as lush

and large as faith

should be.

Perhaps to be there

grants a niche. Yes,

the soul

has more to weigh

than here and less

than time

to work within.

Think arpeggio.

Think

all the notes,

like choices, finding

at last

a form to hold them,

then that

swift current—

layered, contrapuntal,

tense with knots,

spurts—

turning smooth,

the whole scene slowing

toward bend.

appeared in Potomac Review