Bedded in sorghum, the hush beneath us:
how this could be so many other ways,
but is just this that we hold to—palms pressed.
Think of why you’ve come to the forest
of all places, say it aloud, it becomes a refrain.
Try to return, it becomes a refrain.
The last flood brought with it a hunger,
a way to become river reflections. We shade
beneath a jacaranda, growing so many arms.