Friday, November 15, 2013


At the confluence of the creeks there
I released the spirit and memory
of the one who held your name, ho,
the one who held your name.

She flowed back out
as watery eddies,
dancing among broad, solid rocks
(buried just beneath the surface).  
Rocks smoothed
by aeons of carving,
by an ancient flow
from an

How this flow remains
I don’t know;
we seem to get in the way of it so.

But there she is, just afore I release her.
I speak to her.
Whether she hears
is far beyond my knowing.

I barely hear myself.
It’s a quiet conversation.
It’s women’s business.

It’s done.
And there
she flows.

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