Oh, little creek that once ran deep and free,
your water then was pure without debris,
but now your bed of rock has vastly changed–
your counterpane and pillows, rearranged.
The taste of your cool water is now banned–
my son asks why and cannot understand
why no one cared enough to really try
to keep our land the way it used to lie–
soft greens that made a big umbrella shade
along your banks while sun-perch swam and played;
where hart’s breath blended with the mountain mist
as gray fog fingers touched the amethyst.
Non-biodegradable refuse floats
on your waterways like runaway boats.
Oh, little creek, if I could have one plea,
I’d beg to set you free from all debris!
Copyright, 2013, Freeda Baker Nichols