Do you remember the creek you and I
meandered with. . . those many years ago?
Its half-forgotten end has now run dry
and vanished like the ferns that used to grow
along the border of the glade we two
had happily discovered, claimed as ours,
and even then, I guess we somehow knew
that time was fleet; we picked sweet wild flowers,
made friendship garlands. Sunny daffodils
were blooms you liked the best. I liked the blue.
And then we raced each other up small hills,
lay laughing in green grass, friends ever true!
Too old for running now, I spread a blanket and
weave yellow rings, remembering my friend.