Found

I didn’t expect to be seen by anyone,
caught down by the creek, damp
and muddy knees before the dawn,

sleeves shoved up above my elbows,
both hands plunged beneath, fingers
raking sediment below the eddies —

I could offer some excuse, tell you
my wedding ring was loose upon my
finger, slipped into the water, and I’m

dredging for loop of silver, small
missing symbol of all that matters —
but that would not be the truth.

Truth is I only came to listen,
a pre-dawn prayer that’s less an act
of asking, more of waiting

for some sense of direction to reveal
itself, burn off the fog, burnish me
with sunlight’s permeating clarity,

but I’m not so good at meditation,
I’m still prone to distraction, and what’s
really happening is just small bliss:

December creek-water, cold
and almost crunchy, floating flecks
of ice that bump and scrape my wrists,

a contrast to the smoothness of stones
beneath my palms, elusive silt between
them velvety, responsive to the touch.

—Laura M Kaminski
12 04 2014
In response to/inspired by Luisa A. Igloria’s “Process.”

1 Comment


  1. Your well-chosen words paint images of searching and solitude and make my fingers tingle from the cold December water.

    Reply

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