By the wizened roots of a massive oak
under the juniper tree
I cast my sins into the creek
scraping the lint from my pocket,
a mass of gritty regrets
tangled together, lodging under my nails.
I sat on the muddy bank
not caring about my skirt.
Blue gentians twisted in the oak roots,
clover bent under my boots.
One bit of foil was clumped in with my sins.
The lint swished downstream,
but the tiny glint of foil,
flashing in the sun, hooked
on a mass of gingko leaves too great
to be moved by mere water.
Some sins are too beautiful
to ever let go.
from Nine Kinds of Wrong, JKPublishing