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Poems

Overheard at Copper Creek


Overheard at Copper Creek

I am sitting on a wet,
moss-covered boulder,
beside a stretch of
Copper Creek.
The rock, soaked from
this morning’s rain,
seems to enjoy the
warmth of my backside.
Stuck in a zen-like existence,
it can’t go anywhere
without the help
it fears will never come.
The rain has stopped,
but the air
still, is
damp and chilly.
The gray, moisture-streaked stone
sighs, wishing it was as free
as the water that runs past it
sometimes spitting insults.
If the water heard what the boulder thought,
it would laugh. Liberty is not measured
by endless movement or
a race to get somewhere.
The water would tell the stone
that freedom is the ability to stay still.
To see, hear, and feel all that is
going on around it.
But the water in the creek
just keeps rushing by.
Loudly
saying nothing. . . .

Pamela Mohan
October 27, 2012 at
Copper Creek

 

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