THE CREEK BELOW THE GARDEN

God's little acreage just below a grove of pine
Which in season wore the sweet cologne of nature's gift;
The warm clean scent of honeysuckle lingering in
Morning dew which touches wild huckleberry bushes
Clinging near the ground.

The garden clearing held a maze of bush and vine,
A quarter acre filled with roadside vendor's ware
Which mother rather gave away than charge a tariff
For their growing; an abundance more
Than we could use before their freshness faded past.

But I, in youth, was forever intrigued by
The narrow strip at the garden's edge, where a
Trickle of water somewhere upstream grew to a band
A few feet wide and sliced a miniature canyon through
The lower quadrant of our land.

Tall trees bordered on all sides, ancient in their guardianship. 
Moss and fern attested to the quiet seclusion from the sun.
Elderberry lined her sides with deep red-blooded sweet repast,
Which mother captured in a jar to last
Through winter's coldest days.

In Summer we would force her waters back
Into her shallow banks with stone and stick and sand,
A man-made dam of rudimentary skill, which washed away
The first strong rain that fell to quell
Our foolish youthful dreams.

Funny how the time goes by and memories fade into night.
But certain aspects in our youth are lasting thoughts... unwavering.
The creek below the garden is undying in my meager mind;
A cave-wall painting etched in stone...
A fond remembering.

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