To the Ocean
by Ed Happ
There was a stream
next to the house
where I spent half my childhood;
I was forever pulling leaves and limbs
from it
so the water that had backed up
behind the impromptu dam
could flow anew—
there was something about water
moving freely by
that called to my tending
as if downstream
was a place to go
without impediment.
When I can’t pray
I think about the wall of branches
that one by one needs to be pulled out
of the way;
And when I do pray,
I’m sailing to the ocean on the last golden leaf
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