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CEDAR CREEK ANTHOLOGY

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The old days are rapidly changing, in some places they've already gone. It's important to know, there's still someplace to go, where the old days, the old ways live on. Join me here at Cedar Creek, the cool, spring fed waters come to life at your feet. Along tree lined banks I'm sure you'll find...this is not just a place... it is also a state of mind.
...THE BEGINNINGS
From deep within ancient limestone hills,
the spring shimmered as it came to life.
A silver blue ribbon threading it's way
between moss covered rocks toward the light.
For countless eons the creek has flowed,
carving it's bed through soil and stone.
Long before man stepped out of the darkness,
the creek had a life of it's own.
Time and nature slowly changed the land,
leveling hills, enriching the earth.
Still the creek continued to flow,
and from it's bounty, the soil gave birth.
Davy and Daniel may have tasted this water,
flowing from cedar covered hills.
Dreamers and farmers followed closely behind...
dreamers and farmers are living there still.
Now, in the waning hours of country twilight,
as night sounds gently blend with our dreams,
a feeling of magic floats on the sweet air
for those still close to the stream.
...THE OLD MAN
It was one of those summer sunrises,
the kind Tennessee is famous for.
The old man steadied himself on ancient legs
as the new day crept through his screen door.
Outside on the porch he saw heaven
through the mist rising up from the creek.
For a moment he thought he was dreaming,
until he felt the old dog at his feet.
As they walked to the well came a chorus
of John Deere, morning doves and kildee.
A circling shadow turned his eyes skyward,
red-tail hawks, still flying, still free.
His old barn, like himself, leans with age,
the few tools left inside now covered in rust.
It's been twelve years since he worked the fields,
"Doc" says he can't take the dust.
He remembers the days he plowed with his mule,
the noon day sun beating down on his neck.
Today the plow stands useless, the furrows unkept
as he waits for his government check.
Yes, years ago he would have left the house
working hard all day just to make a crop.
Now he sits under the weathered tin roof,
he sits, old eyes searching the creek, and just rocks.
To his mind comes the creek and a boy of ten
the reflection of his face is quite clear.
The old dog tilts his head as the man gently weeps...
he cries for the boy...Cedar Creek...and the passing of years.
...THE BOY
He was just a boy from the country,
freckled face, patched overalls, and bare feet.
In the summer the morning would find him
with his dog, heading down to the creek.
The dirt road wound past houses and farms,
each mailbox beckoning him towards the ridge.
Cedar Creek flowed slowly along it's gravel bed
until it deepened, grew swifter under the wooden bridge.
Like a magnet it's water drew the young boy
to a place shaded by an old knotty pine.
There he dreamed the dreams of a ten year old,
his thoughts swirling around his fishing line.
With the sun on his face, and his friend at his side
he thought of his days spent walking the road.
An old man's life filled his mind's eye
as he watched dragonflies darting about his cane pole.
Many times he'd seen the old man with his dog,
and each time the man seemed much older.
Through innocent eyes the boy's life unfolded,
and a sudden chill grabbed at his young shoulder.
His steps were slower as he headed back home,
passing the old man's farm, he stopped at the gate.
He was too young to understand the sadness he felt,
but old enough to realize the day was growing late.
He turned away from the old man and the creek,
kicking up clouds of dust as he paused at the ridge.
He saw his own life clearly once more, like the cold spring water...
flowing deeper, flowing swifter just under the wooden bridge.
...COMING HOME
The morning sun cuts through a blinding, yellow haze,
like a cloud of despair from car choked asphalt streets.
I breathe air heavy with crippling, city smells,
as my eyes open from a restless, troubled sleep.
For far too long I've survived this island,
man-made, of concrete, cold steel and stone.
For far too long I've lived with distant memories
of cool, clear water, fresh air, and another home.
My thoughts drift back to quiet sunlit days,
reflected, magnified by a spring fed creek.
Each step I take on crowded, steaming pavement,
returns me to dusty roads, cane-poles and barefeet.
I fondly recall days born of sweet morning mists,
every glorious sunrise melting, scattering the fog.
With the innocent freedom of a child in the country,
I walked with nature, with beauty and my dog.
There was an old man living under a tin roofed porch
who, as he sat, would raise his weathered hand.
I'm sure that he's long since buried and gone,
yet, I still harvest memories from his once fertile land.
How many others have a Cedar Creek as I do?
It's promise etched in my mind since the age of ten.
I feel no shame in saying I often shed tears,
for the moment to stand, to walk there again.
You never really leave the cool, clear water
that splashes, that dances at your feet.
It's tree shaded purity stays in your heart,
long after you wade, long after you feel the creek.

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