Poem for a Hot Summer Day

The Laurel Creek, NC

Laurel Creek

The trail is dry and dusty this time of year,
and the creek pitters slowly around
lazy bends, past ancient boulders.
It’s a song I never tire from hearing.

The summer green is deep and bold still,
like 40 years, midway into this life,
we’re in season together and
I don’t feel connected to these mountains;
I am these mountains and this creek.

The air is tangy from Rosebay rhododendron,
thickets lap everywhere at the base of towering firs
and nestle together with the Kalmia laurel,
Indian Paintbrush sets fire to a shallow meadow
and only the white daisies care to compete
with their blaze.

Pools wait at the foot of lathered rapids
running deep into the dark underside of cliffs,
I stop and gaze into the calming clearness;
into depths magnified by the baking sun
eventually peel off my clothes
and sink silently down into the coolness.

The heat of the day and cold of the water
marry together and each eventually call me
to leave one for the other; I float on my back and laugh
at them both, I am a guest here and soon
they quietly make their peace inside me.

Where is it that I came from to arrive here?
Where must I return to and leave this?
And if I float away on this laurel creek
will I not simply float away?

“Quiet”, whispers the water.

“There is no other place to be but here.”