The child picks up a rock
flings it into a creek that’s appeared
out of nowhere after days of rain.
She has a good arm; even small stones make a splash.
What will she remember of me?
Hide and seek? The thrill of finding me?
She loves the wet stones, how they glitter.
I don’t tell her
this creek is ephemeral will dry up in a week
these rocks will lose their shine
become gray and unremarkable as my hair.
We can’t know what stories will survive—
she aims, lets go and the water erupts
moving outward in wider and wider rings.
Moving outward in wider and wider rings
she aims, lets go and the water erupts.
We can’t know what stories will survive.
Gray and unremarkable as my hair
these rocks will lose their shine.
This ephemeral creek will dry up in a week.
I don’t tell her
because she loves how the wet stones glitter.
Hide and seek? The thrill of finding me?
Is that what she’ll remember?
She has a good arm; even small stones make a splash.
After days of rain, into this creek
that’s appeared out of nowhere,
she flings rock after rock.
