Ephemeral Stream

This is the way water 
thinks about the desert. 
The way the thought of water 
gives you something 
to stumble on. A ghost river. 
A sentence trailing off 
toward lower ground. 
A finger pointing 
at the rest of the show. 

I wanted to read it. 
I wanted to write a poem 
and call it "Ephemeral Stream"
and dedicate it to you
because you made of this 
imaginary creek 
a hole so deep 
it looked like a green eye 
taking in the storm, 
a poem interrupted 
by forgiveness. 

It's not over yet. 
A dream can spend 
all night fighting off 
the morning. Let me 
start again. A stream 
may be a branch or a beck, 
a crick or kill or lick, 
a syke, a runnel. It pours 
through a corridor. The door 
is open. The keys 
are on the dashboard. 

by Elizabeth Willis