Beneath the ferns, beneath the oaks,
runs a pure and quiet stream.
It's made the bed in which it lies,
and purrs along contentedly.
The creek cares not for council rulings grand;
it keeps its own counsel.
The creek invites the wanderer
for a respite from sun or wind.
The creek listens to the bird and burdened alike,
offering only an ear; not advice.
The creek, within its banks,
overflows a contagion of serenity.
The creek runs on, persistent, sure,
mindless of man.
The creek is time and life and love;
only these pure things.
The creek is cool and misty and clear, and
shades of green and brown reflected.
The creek, crystalline, knows.
The creek.
© 1989 C. Elizabeth Carl
© 2010 C. Elizabeth (Carl) Elias
