there's a girl, the green river girl.
i invented her.
at first, she was just a pleasantry
an imaginary friend
to the girl inside me named something
who i invented so she could write poems,
but then the green river girl grew up
fed off the grief and fear of losing my pa.
she siphoned my turmoil, my sadness,
and spread it out across the valleys
of the Pacific Northwest of America.
she planted seeds all around this place
where i trek once a year
knowing I'd keep coming back
and eventually see the blossoms
of what she planted for me here.
today we - me, something, and the green river girl -
took the familiar trail down to the bottom
of the falls we stare at for long periods of time
to remember and honor all our past feelings
and today i recognized the fruits and flowers
that were planted a decade ago
by the green river girl, weighed down as she is,
by rocks and sadness, and stuck here forever
in these trees and this water, green and strong.
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