Here’s a dam on the river.
Here’s the place when I’ve hidden all my secrets,
and if you ask me nicely,
I just might let them all out,
They’ll flow like water over stones.
You see, there’s a fine line
between protecting yourself
and shuttering everything to the outside world--
it’s safe to say that I haven’t yet
perfected that art.
I’ve a past I want to forget, but
remember when it can keep me afloat.
Sometimes, I drown under the weight of it.
The limbs of even great swimmers grow tired.
I write poems about water and about trees
because sometimes I am the fish swimming upstream
and in other moments, I am the birch observing it all.
There are boulders on the shore watching me.
There are stones under this water,
weakened by the tide rushing over them.
Writer, editor, and storyteller living in the Twin Cities.