There might have been another way,
other people, places, things—more or less
obstacles to overcome, rest upon—
but no straight line, no short cuts
across the board to get to this spot
along the creek waiting for a rain.
I believe the weatherman, refresh
my contact with the goddess,
send my love in letters, words
rearranged to attract her
attention, but I’m no lackey
to scrape and bow, grovel at her
pretty feet. It’s not the same as before
she left without a sign or warning.
There might have been another way:
studied harder, charged more
for a shorter trip across the board—
but how could HERE ever be the same.
drycrikjournal 