Letters to Minnehaha Creek: XVI
by a contributor
The melted snow brought us much:
high waters for you, for me a new house.
I feel your source from here:
Lake Minnetonka renewed
the way tulip bulbs push
out petals slowly from memory.
I move the sign saying sidewalk closed.
It will not snow today.
The gray accented by green buds
will soon succumb to all green.
Thick yellow tarp stretched under the bridge,
abandoned after last year’s
construction. At night, a raccoon
stares through our kitchen window
unabashed while we make snacks.
She had her babies in the hollow post
on our front porch. We’d like her
to move. The sun bears down
on my back. I feel Dorothy laughing.
I sit by the daffodil patch.
Scrape at the wet leaves matted
at my feet with a stick. You race
along with the speed you need.
I breathe deeply. Let my body
set its own pace. A plane flies
by. A small brown bird chirps.
Steal one daffodil to press in a book.
Perhaps I’ll bury her soon.
I walk against your current
under the freeway, below
the city just far enough to still
smell its need to ingest
me whole, without thought
or desire, the beat of my feet
weave a spell of forgiveness.
I do not care what feasts
on me. I regenerate
Victoria Peterson-Hilleque’s poems appeared or are forthcoming in Paper Nautilus, The Montucky Review, Poppy Road Review, and other journals. She’s the Poet-In-Residence at Solomon’s Porch Church in Minneapolis, Minnesota where she also teaches a poetry workshop.