The river is a heaven-cried tear only Jesus turns to stone.
We are hatched from ice, born from glaciers.
But we are not water.
This is what we must remember: The water is other than us.
But we can stand on the bullrush banks where rivers merge,
some salt, some fresh water.
We can be freedom’s fireflies,
can toe ourselves in, give ourselves,
join our bodies with that of the river’s.
We can flood the banks.
All the while remind ourselves, we are not the river but it’s students.
Beneath our immersion, let our tears sprout wings, let our weeping fly,
listen to its lapping words that tells us how to care less about some things,
more about others.
We can stop making things up.
The important things are already happening.
Be a dam, be a funnel, be a moss-crusted bank,
be a pillowed shore.
Stroke, stroke, be the truth we say we believe.
Cry. Laugh. Remember.
Say please and thank you to good.
To the innocent, yes.
No and stop to evil, (lips close to the mic and screaming.)
Keep swimming even in sleep.
Don’t chart your way on whim except when it comes to love.
Be a sail.
Be an oar.
Be a boat.
Be a ladle.
Leave the dying to stones.