I straddled the stream
panning for signs of gold

the thousandth time
feeling between my thighs

cold currents flowing
the color of brunette hair

at the bottom of a bearded hill.
My fingers passed through sand

and came up empty each time.
This stream, I knew, was poor―

why did I return again and again?
My older sister’s words still stung:

You’re too young to play with us. 
If only I could find a small nugget

I would buy nice things
and make friends to share them with.

Alone, adrift and friendless,
I wound my way through the maze 

of purple-crowned bull thistles, 
watching for rattlesnake holes 

in the dirt.  Why did age matter? 
My denim dried as I climbed 

waving my pocketknife 
at the necks of the tall thistles

listing as a wooden ship 
steered by starlight 

through shallow shoals.
Three ancient oaks saluted me 

as I reached the top:
Faith, Hope and Charity.

I believed they would stand forever.
Charity’s bark peeled

​as if she were sad.
So many secrets lingered 

beneath her boughs
of times forgotten―

of children like me
who once played and sang

and hugged her girth 
but who now were dead.

I never knew how old she was.
To count her rings
​
one must first cut her down. 
Life, it seemed, was measured

only after we die.  
Faith’s limbs were easiest to reach

and I began my ascent
when I saw my sister’s legs 

dangling from an upper branch
(so out of place here in my sanctuary)―

These are our trees. Go away!
she yelled as her friends laughed 

from the outstretched arms
of Hope.  I ran

and I ran. I ran
down the hill, straight through 

the thistles and thorn, heedless
of the needles against my skin.

I collapsed into the dirty water
and buried my torn hands

deep into the silt.
Dear God, I prayed.

    Let me find
    gold.