POEMS . . .

by Marvin Arnold, Sept. '84

There is a creek that runs near a place at the foot of Wampler's hill.
A creek that I have visited many times, and it runs there still.

I walk down by the creek at the end of Merrimac, when I am there.
And think of a little girl with skinny legs and brunette hair.
She climbed this hill to go to school and played along the creek right here.

There is a rise in the street where I taught her sis to drive a stick shift Ford.
The houses here are like gingerbread, the kind working men can afford.

I have walked this creek with wife and child, kin and friend.
We have talked together about how life begins and how it ends.
At the top of the hill, we said goodby to the leader of the band.

There are things we ask ourselves as we walk beside this wooded stream.
Things that we do not understand, perhaps the questions aren't what they seem.
We think of times we should have given of ourselves, and of goals we only dream.

In the summer we are like children who played here and built a fort.
Now in autumn we wonder how our lives will fair in God's grand court.

In times gone by, I paid no attention to the creek that runs there still.
Now I stop to look with different eyes along this creek, I guess I always will.
Our lives are like this creek that runs to the foot of Wampler's hill.

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