By Katie Seaward 

I sit on the fallen log that spans

over the creek, an unfinished bridge that

does not quite join here and there,

only extends lower and lower

until it touches the murky, sluggish water

and disappears below the surface.

I watch the water swirl

below my dangling feet and

I see the litter of bygone childhood years,

the ancient relics from some forest court

held by children long gone.

Their chariots, their bicycles

rust and rot, twisted,

wheel-less in the silt,

their idols, their dolls with faces worn

by the march of time and flow of water,

rest, half buried in the sand.

I see rusting scepters, metal rods

useless and lame in their watery tomb.

I see the remnants of a stately home

now nothing more than strips of metal

and shards of glass, shining bright, strewn

in a fine dust across the bottom.

The past is here in the creek.

And as I sit here,

I cannot help but wonder:

how long it will be

until a part of me joins this reliquary?

how long will it be

until the water imbues me with rust?

how long will it be

until time wears my face smooth?

I suppose by then

the log may have slid far enough

to finally bridge the gap

between here and there.