The Creek

The Creek

You never
seem to
change as
I peer out
from this
point, years
later.
Stumps, rocks,
sticks, dead leaves,
mud.

The gray sky
bleeds into
your water
that crawls
like snakeskin
as it winds
further into
the woods.

Here my shoes
seep into
the ground.
My steps
become lead.

Turning,
I start to run
thinking I might
be swallowed
up by our anger.

--Dianne Robitaille