Near the River

I know the quiet lines of the timbered creek, Where the shadows break and creep, With the wildflowers catching soft lips of the weak, And the willow bends as I kneel in deep.

In the wind, I can hear their hushed flames, The sweet whispers folding by day, Where the dance of gold becomes treasure and names, And a gloaming reflects from the gray.

Let the waters slide—while I rise, I claim A moment alone in her grace; O the shimmering sunlight takes nothing but shame Of a world that lifts at my face!

• David Campbell