A sense of the omnipotent in nature with the instincts of a child.

High Creek Grove


Down the valley of the Six-Mile,
but high above the muddy Wakarusa,
stands the grove of sighing cottonwoods
where spirit winds whisper and rush
through the sparkling leaves.
Among them dead trunks stand boney-white,
pale watchers along the timber path
with streaks of black from heaven's fire.
To pass beyond this place is relief,
paradoxically welcome the bent and gnarled
box elder squeezing over the path
with its humming line of honey bees to duck,
potent small soldiers, jealous of their peace.
Even more welcome is the crossing
where so many cows have waded that
the slimy, sucking potholes of watery earth
pull boot from foot, and strain the pace
already beset with gnats whining at the ears
in thick, muggy June air.
Whoever doubts that the elements of heaven,
the very fingers of God,
sometimes caress the earth in passion or in love,
never was the child who made a dash through
the high creek's cottonwood grove.


Jerry W. Engler