At Boulder Creek
Linda M Robertson
Like a leaf torn from its tree in an angry wind,
The child gasped and sank.
The Father
caught her in these currents I swim against
and settled her on sand,
above the slick, smooth shore.
Mine is a dangerous task.
Up this snowfed, rocky stream,
Beneath the shadow of hawks and eagles
again and again
I sink, and fly.
Seeking my birthplace,
I yearn for waters:
quiet and
familiar.
It is faith and more
that sends me
rising
into air I cannot breathe;
into the light of the afternoon sun.
7/29/2012
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