My Love for You Flows Like the Wild
Waters Of Ghost Creek Before it Dives
Below the Neighbors’ Plum Tree
––for Anita Maria
This piece of Ghost Creek, this run,
was once ancient cobbles scattered
thirty feet below grass fields,
where Old Willy as a youngster romped
NORTH, flowing like so few rivers
here in the northern hemisphere.
Now this short run of Ghost Creek reminds us
how cobbles wear a long spell
before becoming sand dunes.
Stephen Jones has published regionally in Verse Weavers, Fireweed, Calapooya Collage,
Oregonian, Prism, Willawaw, and Cloudbank, among others. He recently moved from a 25
acre tree farm to the literary district in SE Corvallis. He meets weekly with two poetry reading
and writing circles and studies with Contemplative Studies in the OSU Psych Department.
