Some words are heavy, filled with slow sadness, as
If each is a stone lifted from the pocket of the river.

Sometimes, we search hard for an epiphany. Lift up every
Green, mossy rock. Sometimes, guess what, there’s not one!

As a child, I thought rain had a meaning. Later,
I learned rain has many lovers. Gravity among them.

Once upon a time, I focused on the oyster’s bit of sand.
Now, I think of the lucky pebble in my old coat pocket.

My grandmother, fishing pole in hand, said I talked the fish away.
She believed fish, the best listeners, knew words by their ripples.

I have few beliefs. Words are vines that cover them. Grace is
Just dew that gathers in honeysuckle an hour before daylight.