Misconceptions

        By Christine Crowell

I thought grief was

a black pit into which

one falls in a secret hell

where magic happens

and you emerge

healed.

But grief is a raging river

with acid water

and class five rapids

and deep muddy pools.

You are yanked through waves

of scarring acid,

praying to succumb,

and then find yourself floating

in the mud,

still breathing relieved

it is over.

But rivers flow

into more tumult

over and over.

They do not end

as they flow around

bend after bend.

They flood

and rearrange grand  mountains.

season after season.

Boulders roll, beaches shift

and giant trees cave

to the power of the water.

Rivers collect streams

and as the banks reach

towards the ocean,

the waves soften

the rapids spread apart.

Just as your head surfaces and you grab

an unstrangled breath,

you are again the unwilling deitris

pulled down in a whirlpool,

where  fears cling like seaweed

wrapping scars and fins alike.

You do not emerge healed,

you do not climb out of the river,

but you change,

like the mountains and boulders

and learn

 one can swim with scars.