Joe Peacock

To the Sea

 

We step into the creek beyond the house,

bottom stones mossy and green, like ice,

and water farther down the slippery path.

My grandson pours the goldfish

onto a rocky shelf where they skitter and flip,

frantic for the cool wet breath of water’s air.

Urgently we scoot them to the pool.

“Goodbye,” he calls. “It’ll be okay.”

Content, he waves them on their way.

 

On our journey back, I think of you, my mother,

wonder if you’d like for me to hold your hand,

to lift you from that folding bed and place you

in some rushing waters leading to the sea.