I stood on the bank of the creek and looked back.
I saw a piece of driftwood coming – slowly and uncertain.
It passed a rose, reached out for it, and flowed toward me.
A daisy saw them and froze with fear and hurt.
For though she was plain, she wanted to be with the driftwood.
Suddenly the rose pushed herself away and drifted toward the bank.
The driftwood sail dejectedly near the daisy and she reached out and latched on to him.
The driftwood and the daisy travelled happily for a little way
Until some unknown force of the creek made him push the daisy away.
He drifted ashore – not wanting to return to the creek, but still longing to be with the rose – in spite of
her painful thorns.
The daisy was caught in the middle of a whirlpool – not knowing what to do.
Her petals split and were carried away.
Then I turned away.
For the creek was too much like the river of my life.
The driftwood too much like my first love,
The rose like the old love that split us apart,
The daisy too much like me.
But before I had gone, my tears turned the creek into a river.
The stormy, uncertain river of my life – and love.