a green of possibility

It feels right to post another of my poems found in the book “my startled heart.” This one’s titled, “ode to a neighborhood creek.” It’s a Portland thing. Again, paragraphs taking the place of verse:

“The green heron swoops down under the bridge on which I stand and watch. Is it winter or summer? I’m there often. Ducks in the creek on either side, Disneyland rush of a ride by the falls here. Meditative meander slow, slower than a slow drift in small circles there.

How our view changes with the seasons – the clarity of winter exposition in the diminished landscape, our view carries on. So far. We see less in the blossoming spring through green tea leaves of hope. The fresh green of possibility, it tunnels, shrinks our long view. Either way can satisfy.

The creek flows. Flows on. In all seasons. The green heron sings its Jurassic song. And one afternoon I watched a beaver doing laps.

The creek survives to meander – a lesson for us all – and miles away cutthroat trout and a painted salmon hold their place at the great Oregon river. Like bouncers at your favorite club.

I’ve dreamed – often – of finding the lightest rowboat and giving myself over to the endless current. All the tree-lined bends and turns, the high golden grass of summer, at one with the dizzy pastel leaves of late September. Dropped down on the water like me. Just like me.

I’d like to think I remain in the season of my childhood. Where prehistoric birds and rainbowed fish tag along. Where they just might think, ‘We’ve got a live one here.’

Here at the creek.”