When she decided to become a river
I decided to become a robin perched
on a snow-wrapped branch of a ten-year oak
that stood before her very first bend.
On a nearby grave, the rain-scented soil
complemented the stench of a long-dead carp.
I waited, still, for her voice in the rushing
of the water as it washed rotting flesh away.
I watched as her spirit percolated through cracks
of the weathered rocks and the pebbled moss.
How inviting – again – was her grounded clarity
for even beings like robins that can only fly.
— A. P.