Gold panning

That summer I went in many circles –
etched in silver, in a hot attack room.
I focused on the flame,
its color as it changed,
the shape of the silver as it melted
and its shine below the muck
when it cooled.
It was simple
but I made it complicated.

Another summer is beginning I realize
with my hand submerged in running water.
It’s cold. I hold my hand under until I can’t.
The cold is glacial.

The sun shines on the river as I reach
For another handful of mud,
my unpainted nails scraping the bedrock.
I straighten, stretch my back
and look downstream.

My eyes and hands drop back down
to the mud and water
searching for a speck of gold.

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