Tumbling

There was rain in the mountains today. Great big clouds hung across the ridges, dipping their toes in the valleys and smelling of wet grass and dust. We haven't had any rain all summer, I am glad, she said, as we braved the trickle. We are still so poor. I don't know how we'll do it anymore. 

It seems all the lives around me crumble and build with the tide, lately. We catch a moment's breath, only to have our sand castles toppled over, and we begin again. She arrives with the plane; he got a job. We can move out of his parents' by Thanksgiving. Months ago we feared she would not live to see the summer, under his thumb. We pack the million grains of ancient rock, make our walls and windows, see the great wave come in.

I drove through the mountain pass alone today, the golden aspen trees glimmering in the mountains, the highway swaying steadily, and it sank in: I swim through the same hamster wheel, season after season, and now is the time to step off. I am tired of rehashing the same compulsive repetition.

Now is the time
we built our towers
of concrete.