I was watching the rocks at the bottom of the creek

picking out the pretty ones,

thinking of them,

and moving on,

over and over conquering the art of letting go,

I was watching the fragments of light jump from the water

taunting me as they disappeared,

I smiled,

I watched small fish as they fled,

some would stop, refusing the current,

but eventually they too would leave

I watched the green,

the blue

and the movements of life

I felt the rhythm of each busy existence

drawing me to sleep,

I sat there thinking on a white rock under

a white aspen tree,

of how the light poured into the creek,

and how the creak poured into the distance,

Here, I was not a guest

but a participant of the trees

and the trees did howl in the peaceful

way they know,

I stayed there for hours

then I picked up my shoes

and I left

like the rocks I had picked out

and the light on the water

and the fish swimming upstream

weeks later, my fingers scraped the bottom of the bathtub,

directing the last fragments of mud to the drain

This memory faded in the context of my life

I had held to it like a robins egg in my hand,

I thought I was too reckless so I stored it away,

it was gone the moment I forget I had it,

our best memories are scarcely lost

because they were broken,

but because we hid them from the light