Stopping to Breathe by a Creek I Will Forget
There were too many items in my backpack
for a short walk in the woods by the highway:
bandaids, two bottles of water, snacks I do not like,
three books of poetry, extra warm pants and another
jacket just in case, my camera battery inside my camera
is dead so I cannot take a picture of this unimpressive
creek that has dull twigs and possibly trash on its edges,
if I had to guess — what else would I do with this time? —
this trickle of water does not even run year round, dries up
when the sun is thick or the rain is sparse, until then
it won’t stop singing at the top of its lungs.
Isn’t it ironic that this uninspiring creek can inspire poetry? The artist can find beauty in decay.