A river of words
flows by me.
I see them ripple in the water
dance with the falling leaves.
I hear the murmur of vowels,
little spits of consonants in a language
pleasing though foreign to my ears.
There’s a house of cards at the river’s edge
with symbols beyond my ken,
I see the cards building higher and higher,
see them bend and sway with the wind,
on top, a flag flutters and falls
as the cards come tumbling down.
A river of words flows by,
minnows dart in and out,
a vowel here, a consonant there, caught
in their open mouths. They understand
the river, a silent eloquence
written with flashing tail.
I must learn
the art of fishing…
—Allegra Jostad Silberstein
Crossing Lake Baikal, Siberia
Each of us follows a path,
treacherous as fractured ice,
into unseen futures —
away from untraveled pasts.
Make no mistake, nothing is new.
This ground has been trod before;
this air, stirred in the lungs
of those long dead.
In spite of the long cold wind,
a howling across the steppe,
we are not alone in this journey.
Look for footprints. Listen for prayer.
—Katy Brown
