Watering Iridescence

Creek rubs a trombone of stones. You ache 

to make music in a world that would
make you a fraction. You tender 

to be tender in systems that steal 
your softest selves. You create a refuge 

in all the places they try to humble 
you. You create family in choosing 

vitality, in choosing connection even when 
your heart seeks shutter. You notch 

a presence between anchor & steam, know 
the value of abyss & heavens & yet choose 

this present silk of warm dirt, the craft of finding
footing in an in-between place, in these running 

waters. Even so, you crave 

to carve a footprint where ripple 
relaxes 

hold, this spot where you can cup all you have 

been & tread toward all 
you hope to be. Where you are 

full. Where you are held. Where you can mark 

your mark. Where you are grasped. Where you
can encircle your beloveds, safely. When

you perceive the tadpole quivering, you think, 

this one too will pass, as did that one, and that 
one, and every one – until you too find both 

hands bent – an amphibian hymn 

at the precipice 
of melody & mistake – 

& you shimmer in submission to stream, seeking 
home in possibility 

of transformation, your 

soft aspirations against gravel. You dream as waters – 

by coursing. You swim toward the warmth 
of yourself. You swim toward 

the warmth of beloveds. Frost exhausts 

& you too dissolve, mighty with spring 

at brink 
of thaw, at curve 
of sediment – 

croak into creek, seen into sung, prayer into moment, path

into boundless – movement as shelter – exquisite 

praise of being, of shared blooming.