A Poem

If the water forms
the forms of the weeds, there—

a long life is not by that
a necessarily happy one.

My friend. We
reckon on a simple

agreement,
the fashion of a stone

underground.

From The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley (University of California Press, 2006). Copyright © 2006 by the Estate of Robert Creeley. Reprinted by permission of the publisher.