I stopped as if I knew anything
by John Walton
Missouri Flat Creek
when the breeze
began to change and
belly through the scene
of lucent reeds and
ripened wheat. Nearby,
grasshoppers stirred, coy to the touch
of this sudden change,
while a pocket of white butterfly flickered
into the tapered light
of this Wednesday afternoon.
Then looking down the path,
a few honey bees were
coiling up from the edge and
flying out to a Willow tree
beside the shaded creek.
I could tell the sun had been out
by looking around, this belief of light
illuminating in the air.
And for a moment I wanted
nothing more. In all my greenness,
I wanted nothing else.
Then the thought of kneeling down
beside the water, and
putting my hands in it
as it trickled past came to me. Then I wanted
nothing more than that. Because
who could believe in wanting anything more?—
in wanting to know anything other
than what it felt like
to being so close to being