Jun 16, 2009

Shack & Creek

Written by Carolyn Guinzio

Read by David Sanders

There go the dead leaves, there go
the sticks. She is rushing, anxious
to usher away the last rain.

What moving water says to the senses:
We are all connecting, concocting
means of reaching into each other’s

being. You’ll rot knocking into your own
walls. Water will wear down the walls
of the shack that has sat on the edge

of the creek since before the first
storm of three, the three big storms
that sank us into dissipation.

Deep in the creek wait the remains
of the roots of the tree that made
the shack. Any gaze sustains it: yours,

mine, suspends it between rain
and creek, inviting and heavy, wanting it
back. Look away and let it go back.

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