"streambound" 

 

In the stream before thought, 

a silver thread spills from a cloud’s open palm. 

It beads the air with patient syllables, 

falling into the current where our minds already drift.

 

We wade in — ankles claimed by the cold, 

our boots drinking more than we do. 

Above, heaven’s ladle tips again, 

its rain stitching ripples into the moving mirror.

 

There is no shore here, 

only the slow passage of silt and dream, 

where every step sends rings outward 

to touch a bank we cannot see.

 

And if the water laughs over us, 

sloshing past the leather walls we built, 

we wear that saturation gladly — 

for it is proof we walked in deep enough to be changed.

 

 

 

 

 

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