Reaching for the Creek

Wallace Creek at sunset

The limb of the old oak bends and dips toward the creek,

Brushing the water ever so lightly with its branches;

Steady in its growth toward this moment

When it can finally touch what it has reached for

Through countless sodden summer afternoons and the gray squalls of January.

Patiently, it has watched the tide flow out, then back again,

Bringing, on its current, the crabbers pulling their traps

And glistening porpoises chasing silver, flitting fish.

The tiny crabs peek cautiously from their muddy homes

While oysters, edgy but delicious, pop and spit like old sailors

At the quirky brown pelicans, swooping and splashing and indulging

The heron, who stands aloof and dispassionate on the sandbar,

Unimpressed by the beauty of the early morning light on the creek. 

I am not nearly as old or so wise as the bowing tree,

But my soul, whether troubled or at peace, knows to listen

When the rivershore invites me to come and be near the water,

Where I can feel its breath on my skin and hear it whisper,

As I reach to it like the ancient oak,

That I am home.