the river, the rock, the light

cut into me,
the light (sun and beams)
is here, and the pain,
coming in clumps like dirt

will be soothed with the foam
of the river,
the froth of my rapids

Zennias are growing in
many lands; petals and colors
round upon round

they wait for me on some shore
and I
can no longer see the rock
though it presses into me

whitewater covers my sins
dirt soothes my wounds,
and under my fingernails
I see shiny pieces of sand
reflected