Fay Guinn–CHRISTIAN CREEK
Behind our house ran a creek
banked about ten feet deep,
soldiered by trees, brush and kudzu.
Water trickled in a drought,
roared when gorged with rain.
My three boys explored its depths
like modern Huckleberry Finns.
To them it might as well have been
the Mississippi, Arkansas, Missouri.
Gleefully, they gifted me
with bounty of muddy treasure –
shelled, smooth, and scaly creatures,
prehistoric, amphibian menagerie.
Their eyes saucered in wonder
at each slimy, aquatic prize.
Mouths o’d and voices squealed
at the thrill of reptile ribbons
wriggling, slithering over arms,
hands, fingers, feet, and toes.
Determined not to quench
their insatiable thirst
for fearless adventure
and fascination with creation,
I lost my fear of snakes.