They wait for me across the creek.
They look like shadows from this side.
One day I'll wade across to seek
The insubstantial. Petrified
With cold and fear, I'll stand, midstream,
And feel what's real: round, slippery stones,
The force of water in a seam
Of that ravine. My skin and bones
Will read the creek a final time,
Will feel its push and temperature.
I'll stand unsteadily, a mime
Without an audience and most unsure
About the balance of the act.
But then I'll move, make it across.
The creek will be the final fact-
Its gravel, boulders, trout, and moss.
The far side shall be near. I'll fall
Into the life of death. Will they assist,
Who've gone before, and bear the pall
When I fade into mottled mist?
Hans Ostrom
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/crossing-the-creek/
