Cold Creek Memories; So Warm Now

In a cold creek, we let it fly,

Then we reel it in.

In a scraped up aluminum canoe, comfy enough for just us,

We fish for pumpkin seeds,

Primped in fading, orange life vests, with our bucket hats like real men,

Dreaming of snagging a big mouth bass,

But surely it was always a myth.


It is these days, when the sun crinkles its nose,

Pulls the clouds in front of it,

And leaves for a cigarette.

And yet, that thought would never

Brush the finite layers of an innocent me

In this canoe.

Instead, I’m drinking old- fashioned bubbly, soda pop,

Reveling in the cartoon I watched last night,

To my best friend.


Remembering this now, I taint it, dilute or pollute it,

Until the creek is murky,

The sun hasn’t returned,

And there are no fish to be found.

Then why am I fond of this memory?


Sometimes, it takes more than just remembering to bring it all back.


From the distance, in shedding cattails, and tall shrubbery,

As the canoe grinds against the rolling stones underneath,

A white stallion, its nose dipped in black, breaches from the forest

And gallops across the field.

When the horse has become aware of distant eyes,

It freezes, lifts its heavy front, dirt caked, hooves,

And bucks into the sky,

Like a wolf at full moon.

Then just like it came, it left,

Me wordless, until now

When I relived the memory.


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