The Goddess of the Creek

She rises with the ebb, the gentle tide
Licking the shore.

Her toes are small,
her hands are small.

Her body is covered,
head to toe with clusters of freckles
forming un-nerving constellations
that can be seen at dusk.

She wears a gown
made of linens and things.
Kerchiefs and ephemera
that have been claimed by the water shed.

Her voice,
Is like a harp,
lilting in and out of tune.

Her eyes,
a bright hazel
with specks of blue and green.

I saw her once,
as I was smoking my pipe
by the pebbles on the edge of a thicket at mid day.

She was carrying in her arms, a bandaged fawn.
I saw her kiss its head.

She placed it down on the grass,
where it walked ably back into the wood.
She approached me as I sat,
the bottom of her gown
passing over the leaves as if it were merely a whisper.

I stood to greet her,
and she kissed my cheek.

Her hair carried the odor of moss
and burning leaves in the morning.

Though plain in manner and appearance,
I felt my heart surge with joy,
and a warm cool sensation in my abdomen.
I reached down to touch her hand,
and she gazed at me.

She had the smile of an ingénue.
She kissed me again on the lips,

cool

with a taste of earth
and wormwood and elderberries.

She looked up to me again,
as the wind creaked in the vines,
and the branches and boughs
heaved and sighed in shafts of unbroken light.

She took my other hand and we rose together
up into the air slowly first then gaining speed.

Her eyes swirled in the sun,
and the air became cooler.
As we passed the tops of the crowning oaks,
she pulled down the top part of her gown,
and I wept.