In time, or out of it, the moment is water, and ice is steam in love’s cupped hand. Remembering this, I make my way. Season to season. One life to the next. With this, I have no argument. Why argue with winter, cold fingers, warm breath?
Many tongues were spoken. They travelled The length of your name, and you learned Their wet language. The tides between Your legs, the rivers that began like Waves of something incommunicable, Found a voice. You became the stone, and the ripples. They called it coming, but saw only their own reflection. Even The shallowest water, when it is Still, is unfathomable. Even silence Is a lie, when it needs be.