Even the meek swell
with water running down.

Come now, spill yourself
into our long water.

Let it trail you down
over gullies,
under arched branches

in its passive rush.
Feel the undercurrent,

what draws the flow
beyond eyes,

buoying each awkward twig,
tripping up glossy stones.

How I long to know it by heart –
to hang on its stories,
to tell it mine,

and then to burst forth
my own river,
to tumble over earth afresh,

upending stubborn boulders,
washing the grass clean

to grow wild again,
letting love loose

in all its crazy ruckus
over every plat we survey.

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For Mr. and Mrs. Jorian.