62. OLD FARMER'S STREAM

The farmer looked to be in his nineties,

Flannel shirt and levis

He bent over the engine of a tractor

At the gate of his farm

I had wandered up the gravel road

In search of somewhere...

There was a creek flowing under a fence into his land

Green green grassy land

Full of old gnarly oaks

And rich red riverbanks...

What must it be like to live one's life

On such land?

As this old farmer no doubt had, and his father before him,

And his father before him...

I told him I was a photographer and wondered if he

Would give me permission

To do some photos along the creek?

He responded with great kindness

And so I walked back to the highway to get

The tall red-haired Irish girl

And all the rest of that day

We slipped over and under fences

Finding beautiful places to create our art.

All of them out of sight

Of the farmer and his house of course--

He would have been amazed to see her...

So nude and lovely...

In those familiar places...

Perhaps like a capering ghost of long gone female generations

Who scampered wild enough in their time

Through this winding creek

Carried school books

Chased after dogs

Picniked with beaus

Carried babes in blankets

Untold generations and Indian families before them

If this creek could talk,

Could reminisce of all the young darlings

Who had trod these cool slippery stones...

The gypsy red-head stretched her long legs

Along the exposed roots of the old river trees

And the wind caught her hair in wild caresses

And her eyes and her mouth and her nipples and her toes

Matched the roots she found

As if a great-great-great-great-great grandmother's

Long-forgotten daughter was somehow present

And feeling and remembering

Through her.