I need the moment when my mind becomes a river
— Beside Bridal Veil Creek in Yosemite
I need the moment when my mind becomes a river
gliding over rainbow rocks and splashing up on big stones,
heading toward the falls.
Instead, my tentacles stretch toward the toddler
rassling & giggling with Daddy;
the 10-year-old resting feet and self in glacier-melt;
and the irritation emanating from my teen.
Along with the smell of purple nail polish.
I try to focus on the water. The chemical odor
invades my nostrils and my peace. I try so hard to say nothing.
I rest my eyes on the shining white limbs of a dead tree across the creek;
the depth and speed of this melting snow water; the steadiness of that sound;
and the light coming through the forest, warm and orange.
I return my mind to the water, the undulating light over rocks,
the green weeds swirled & pulled.
I try to capture the peace I will need in the coming months,
like a pioneer canning pears or hanging sausages and herbs in the attic.
I will return to this moment when I lay in bed late;
when my teen’s feelings burst like fireworks in the kitchen
and my hands stop chopping red peppers;
when my toddler turns down the potty and pees in her fifth pair of panties;
when I look through my father’s finances with my mother, both of us novices.
I need the gurgling water running through my mind
even after joy: my father remembers stories, his blue eyes gleam, and he jokes.
His passwords may have passed into the great beyond,
But he still sits in the chair facing the sea.
I carry all this along on the water, always knowing
that the falls are up ahead.
.
Liona Burnham teaches writing to community college students in the Pacific Northwest and Northern Virginia. She has a master’s degree in English-Creative Writing. She has a poem forthcoming in Sky Island Review. Her poems also have been published in the Northern Virginia Review, cranky: literary/arts journal, and Bellowing Ark.
Stone Poetry Quarterly 