I wait for rivers of words.
I want to be the dam.
Some words will cross over,
be lost in the river below.
Others will catch in my weir
and tell of dragonfly
who tried to silence me;
as willow whispered to her mate,
and a sturgeon with eyes blue
as ice dreamed of legs;
a red-lipped bottom feeder
watched as armies of bass drove
the bluegill away;
and snake fell from the willow,
apple still balanced on his tail.
Like a clam at low tide,
I pull into myself and wait
knowing
current carries all
to the last dam
and the long passage
to the   light.