STEVENS CREEK

What wonder! That new Spring green
I cannot wash the color from my memory
Today I wandered by
The place I'd once considered mine.
Oh, it changed. It has been years
Since I claimed it for my soul. Years,
Since I returned that first time…

Long ago I'd encountered that fallen tree,
Nestled in the bosom of the creek
Where it curved into the bramble,
Its softness a lull in time.
The creek's song the ripple of flowing water,
Bare roots holding the banks.
And my guitar would add the harmony
Though it seemed my fingers hardly touched the strings.
I carved my initials into that tree
With a pocketknife I'd unearthed by accident
When I tripped over a root and fell into the stream.
It was mine, that place…a solace.
A joy. Time meant nothing then,
And while I was there it seemed not to pass
For I was youthful
And impetuosity my middle name.

Circles of life have moved since then
And the winter of which I speak brought harshness there.
The storms that year tore at the creek,
Rent the earth and pounded the trees down the flume—
No brook, but a torrent it became
That ripped my arbor asunder…
I can still taste the salt
And feel the sting of the tears that flowed
Even faster than that rushing burn
When I saw what Nature had suffered at Winter's hand,
Nature's own hand
In selfish sorrow for a loss I considered mine.