Storm

Storm

Debris of shattered tree limbs
littered my waves.

When I met you,
it was after a storm,
And the closer I got to you,
the more my thrashing currents
would spin you out of control.
Then you disappeared
and I found myself
alone, afraid.

Afraid
of conflict with boulders,
the endless tears of mist
as I smacked the banks over and over,
expecting something different
when this tumbling and thrashing was all too familiar.
It was as if I were grieving
the phantom limb of control,
the loss of something I never had,
control over the physics of height versus speed,
water versus rock, too much water
for the depth and width of the riverbed,

too much truth to hold back tears.

When I reached the river,
I looked back over where I had been.
And lodged between two boulders
at the crest of an outcropping of stone,
there you were.

You looked back down at me, smiling,
and said “Leave me here.
You will travel lighter without all my baggage.
And anyway, I’m exhausted
from trying to steer you clear of the boulders.”

I floated down the river on my back, unencumbered.
Perhaps next time there comes a storm, I will remember
to ride it out, trusting that gravity will keep me going in the right direction.
And maybe I’ve also learned not to thrash so much
in fear of losing control, in fear of being myself.