I gathered sticks and string,
tied new knots and tightened
well; loose ends can raise a
tragic demise in the
water if you don’t take
care. I picked up every
thing I needed from the
woods, most of it I found
on the forest floor or
beneath the twine that lay
by the roots of each tree,
and built myself a raft.
I took to the water,
raft in hand, holding it
carefully for fear of
breaking such a fragile
thing. I didn’t want to
have to let go, I was
reluctant to put it
in the water, to lose
it; I loved it and I
almost went home. But I
stayed, sat by the water,
and let go of my raft.
Floating on a placid
lake, my raft looked strong, bold,
majestic. Swan under
sun. I pushed it further
out, almost out of reach,
an arms’ length away. I
wanted to pull it back,
to keep it close but I
was brave and jumped on, held
on for the life of me
and it. I sat, paddled,
and floated away on my raft.
A million planets
above me, countless and
pure. I would never know
what is up there. Next to
me, a rocky cliff face
and ghosts calling for me
to see them. So as they
ordered, I opened my
eyes wide and saw it all.
I was blind and crashed, broke.
My raft was in pieces,
collapsed, you beside me,
and I fell.