We tromp through August’s only shade along
a creek that feeds the Susquehanna, when—
“The water calls to me!” she screams, and lands
between the shale, between the shade, between
unknown and known. To hold her hand would mean
I fear the mud on which she slips, and yet
to let her go recalls the aged dad
who gave his son, his line, his love atop
the pyre. And I don’t know a thing about
all this. Not roots and mycorrhizal growth,
but how to give her where the stream began,
or how to feel a joy as strong as oaks
that stand despite the question and the curse:
What if she is all I really have?
–
Jessica Whipple is a writer for adults and children. Her most recent poetry credits include Anti-Heroin Chic, Reformed Journal, Door Is a Jar, Green Ink Poetry, and Pine Hills Review. Her debut picture book titled ENOUGH IS… came out this spring from Tilbury House, and another titled I THINK I THINK A LOT with Free Spirit Publishing is forthcoming in August. Follow her on Twitter @JessicaWhippl17.