In the stream we wrap
our fingers like tacked carpet
around the discrepancy
of rocks. Solid pieces
of disassembled earth. We lift,
pile,
and build – three feet
square for the rerouting of water
like we were
the hand
of God – tumbling mountainsides,
re-building topographical
maps.
Our fingers grow
tired
long before the children’s.
They grasp
the wet edges,
laughing
as water drops
trickle across their foreheads – tiny windows,
crosscurrents of the soul.
And the sun tangles with lower branches,
building pools deep enough to cool our heated figures
leaving a notch
carved for new water – an invitation
to the race
downstream.
This is the torrent
of change
built with unexpected discrepancy,
in streets, in front
of state houses. The toppling of mountains
may have been easier.
Creasing the wet edges of history
into a plane
meant to burst forward,
meant
to fly.
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C.C. Fuller spends her time reading to children as a school librarian and as a mom to her two story-loving children. In addition, she writes poetry and children’s books. She has been published in Taproot Magazine and does her writing on a dining room table that has been in her family for three generations.
Image via Iryna Yafimchyk for Working Families.
