Fallen Tree

This is the way water
thinks about the desert.
The way the thought of water
gives you something
to stumble on. A ghost river.
A sentence trailing off
toward lower ground.
A finger pointing
at the rest of the show.



I wanted to read it.
I wanted to write a poem
and call it “Ephemeral Stream”
and dedicate it to you
because you made of this
imaginary creek
a hole so deep
it looked like a green eye
taking in the storm,
a poem interrupted
by forgiveness.

Excerpt: "Ephemeral Stream" ~ Elizabeth Ellis