White Flag in Autumn

We weren’t gone long,
but the creek
is not the same.

Autumn
laid a healing
gauze of glass
from shore to shore.

Stick in hand,
I break the ice
letting the water
flow cold and fast.

Day after day
the creek and I
battle,
but the edge
where I stand
grows firm.

I should have laid down
my anger.
My stick,
now broken,
is tossed upon the snow.

Come spring,
two pieces thaw

drifting

away.

Long gone.