Wisdom Creek

author’s note:

I’d feel embarrassed by this confession if I thought I was the only one playing a violin.


WISDOM CREEK

All day long I’m a violin
dreaming a melodramatic melody.

But when I write poetry
I stop playing
and instead
whisper about how
I sat down in solitude
at the wisdom creek.

Truth is:
I often forget to visit
those healing waters
caught up, as I am
in my bars of music.

But strings in the head
eventually trip the feet

then I land down hard
on my back--back
at the wisdom creek.

But as I sit on its bank
in stunned silence
I may hear a deeper me

while watching my inflated violin
float away on the gentle waters.

But I’m cured only for the moment--
that overwrought music returns too soon:

apparently
the hungry boy in me
desires a grander life--
wants to feel heroic.

Maybe someday I’ll convince him
we can accomplish more
by feeling and following
our quiet strength.

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© 2021, Michael R. Patton