The sweet gentle sound of a rhyming wind
whispers down Sipapu Creek.
A whirlwind snow and spitting rain,
spinning trees to glass .
White-faced rocks
pocked with dirt, eyes errantly peeking
toward Beaver Ridge Dam .
Splintered memories
of when the creek did flow.
.
Trickles of water.
A trail for climbing; ruts perfect
for soft, summer feet.
Now frozen in early day cold.
I search for what was lost,
caught in the bramble
My heart, in pieces, strewn.
Odds and ends.
As we jumped into the mossy deep
to cool in Sipapu Creek.
.
Our rock, special, now cracked with cold,
snow covered in pine- sap ice.
We kissed.
As the gentle sighs of a rhyming wind
carried us beyond the creek and into the wild
of our own desire.
Another time and season,
when the creek did flow and the sweet rhyming wind
sighed down a roaring creak,
merging its destiny with ours.
Leaving naught but odds and ends
in the early day cold.
Inhaling that time
when the creek did flow
and life was warm at Sipapu .