no prayer refused

it was simpler then,
as children, to have a creek
rolling through the back yard

more tangible than airy gods
to carry all our worries
– no prayer refused –

© Sarah Whiteley

Diving back into writing after my recent busy work schedule is proving to be a little more challenging than I expected. So I am dabbling here and there on a few small pieces and giving my brain a chance to unwind from all the chaos. So if things have been quiet on the blog-front, this is why. The pre-sales period for Wandering Wonderful just happened to coincide with some big work deadlines, which made keeping up with both a massive effort. But now that both are over, I’m looking forward to some restorative ventures out into nature and putting pen to paper once more.

On a side note, I did hear from the publisher while proofing my galleys that they are a little behind schedule on printing. I do not know yet what this means for Wandering Wonderful, but I think it likely that the drop date may be a little later than the initially anticipated May 17th. I will post an update once I have more information.

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hiking near the Pacific Crest Trail

thirty-two water crossings
and just shy of ten miles

later, I might discover
a jealousy of this stone

but for now I am here and
its perspective is mine –

yes, it is possible to be
both cold and cradled

for exhilaration to rise
from old bones and leaf mold

I am more I, more in
while I am without

it is life that kisses me
through creek-wet feet

© Sarah Whiteley

like the lake

like the lake, I am much less talkative
than say the creek cantering east,
teasing the low-hanging ferns to trembling

we lakes embrace rather than chase,
swallow whole those stones that settle
to long years of mute stillness

we are content with the stir and shift of winds,
with the lined glide of a pair of loons,
returning to the calm lull of a cat-tailed inlet

© Sarah Whiteley

the creek

I lived once alongside the creek
with its green tumblings and blue pools,

where younger hands than these knew
the language of the ridges in the bark
of the oak that created a bridge of itself –

a path to the tall grasses fanning the sky
on the other side, where the small adventures
of frog-finding and sugar maple climbing waited,

to the tucked-away nests of the kildeer,
who darted in with shrill admonishments
to distract curious eyes from their cache

even then the creek was a confidante,
swallowing cares without complaint –
rolling them into eddies,
tumbling them over rocks,

until with time they inclined
more toward the size and shine of sand,
the gift of a much more manageable grit

© Sarah Whiteley