How will I ever settle down with the creek bed dry as a bone in February the
last gasp of
trickle&splash.
The river green and still as emeralds?
The winds arrive as if to ignite some ancient old bloody cut, you know, the one that never healed, you know, the one that festered for years, infected, pestered, itched.
I would soothe myself in the falling water of the creek
filling it’s crevices and tangle of rotted oak and squirrel bones with my grandmother’s jewels and the discarded feathers of Raven.
I offer this watershed my tenderness&wishful thinking
a garland of carnelian a garland of sandalwood beads
those waxy bags filled with opium poppy seeds that bloom the color of my blood and the
regal purple of my lineage.
regal purple of my lineage.
The winds arrive cranky and determined more fierce than my heart can bear
more tenacious
than my sorrow.
more tenacious
than my sorrow.
True,
they will win our ongoing argument this time.
True,
I will run back to that burned out faery stand deep in the canyon.
True ,
there may be no water now.
