They wait for me across the creek. <br />They look like shadows from this side. <br />One day I'll wade across to seek <br />The insubstantial. Petrified <br /> <br />With cold and fear, I'll stand, midstream, <br />And feel what's real: round, slippery stones, <br />The force of water in a seam <br />Of that ravine. My skin and bones <br /> <br />Will read the creek a final time, <br />Will feel its push and temperature. <br />I'll stand unsteadily, a mime <br />Without an audience and most unsure <br /> <br />About the balance of the act. <br />But then I'll move, make it across. <br />The creek will be the final fact- <br />Its gravel, boulders, trout, and moss. <br /> <br />The far side shall be near. I'll fall <br />Into the life of death. Will they assist, <br />Who've gone before, and bear the pall <br />When I fade into mottled mist?<br /><br />Hans Ostrom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crossing-the-creek/
