Seventy Years

Taylor Graham

What to do with the things we love
and at last must leave? She walks the dry
creekbed, remembering its spate
after a big storm. Raging down the torrent,
tree-limbs tore out her fences
at the crossings. But this winter morning,
sun is sweet on her skin. It turns
froth-scum on rocks to lemon-whip.
A log from higher on the slope
has come to rest like an axle
of the mountain; and on a neighbor’s
grassy hillside, five or more
boulders graze like sheep escaped
to greener quarters. So far from ocean,
she breathes-in damp and salt
and air, elements that constitute herself.
Isn’t she all the things she’s lived
with? How to throw it away – throw,
threw, thrown. To the flood?
Ride the current like a throne racing
downriver, home.

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