Portrait of a Veiled Land - Minha Kyun

In late spring of 2009, she dived into the water

with her younger sister

who tailed behind her. The sun wrinkled

as breeze wafted over the stream

shrouded by Oak Trees

and Finches. Petals

of Goldenrod drifted on the surface

reflecting the clouds.

All long before turf

withered and the blue

sealed her memory, because summer

heralds the end of season– don’t

ride buses shuddering against the unpaved

path, don’t throw away popsicle sticks

on the river banks, don’t fill a bucket with creatures

living in the bottom of water (winnowing out the last

of what kept the stream alive).

When she goes back to it

years later, only branches

will shuffle across the ground, the sound

of tires rumbling against the asphalt road, and water

swelling with plastic not the leaves of Oak

lost beneath earth.

Yet the waves in the waters have only begun

to whirl, rippling away with rubbles

and again stacking up human history.