On Hiking Down Indian Creek

“On Hiking Down Indian Creek”
Flowers grow on the carriage road
To Harrodsburg. I saw them, wild and violet,
Suffering my tread. The old road where no one goes
Has growing things upon it; saplings among the mile-stones.
Where a bridge had spanned a creek, I walk
Across the Cataract, alive at last, in the wreck
Of unravelled roads shorn of travelers.
And the water is coursing, the same, I know it;
I am old in water-years, having seen droughts
And floods, tumbled banks and sediment. But
That sentiment is a little thing, for the road is old,
And even the woods around it whistle still
With the blooming of youth in the spring.
So in the place where the steps of men
Made flat the ground of Kentucky hills,
A memory of humanity makes garden plots
For God, and the old ways will walk again.

-Lyman Stone ’13


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