Brushy Creek Incident
by DIY Danna
The greenstone moss guardians of the park
are damning the torpedoes inside,
the sun god breaks through the clouds to warn me
of the crashing waves over round rocks.
He appears and sites on the log where Sam Bass sat
and schemed and daydreamed, I suppose:
the chill of late winter freezes time past,
but not the currents of thoughts,
endless sounds of meditative white noise
hushing my cries of helplessness
to kill the enemies inside.
Because the battle rages in stages of grief.
The tears of the creek never dry out either,
for joy or sorrow from the sky
doesn’t stop the crying in my dry season
when friends can’t express empathy
without the fear of losing hold
of broken hands that cannot mend quickly,
they cannot understand the limbo
of limbs that want to linger, grow longer…
Yet over time, friends and our limbs bend, weather
and snap like twigs in a storm.
The fragments of still living trees
fall apart in rushing water, become sediment–for new lives.