Look at water, a river, curious, blue, carving

at my gold-flecked uncertainty, my sore silver edges

Everything important looks closer underwater

Some greater purpose, swollen, but I have worn the wrong shoes

I make puddles all the same, muddy swirls of shade

My longing leaves tracks all through the house

I cover them with worry but they still talk back

Maybe this is evidence of a year spent in quiet

A century of listening, there are mice in these walls

Humming little hunger songs and waiting for me to finally

Put an end to their sadness, I'll throw them a banquet

Spread out all my possible futures like charcuterie and

Marbled cheeses that smell of red loam in summer

Drown out the sounds of sorrow in baroque pot banging, maybe sprout wings

To float, flit, fly even, as I

Listen, no matter how many times