Water Knows My Name

The river carries everything—
messages tucked like minnows,
memories sliding smooth against the stones.

I don’t reach for it.
I just lean close,
let its song find me.

The surface shimmers,
and faces rise—
smiling, radiant,
light stitched into their edges.
They don’t speak with lips,
they ripple through the water.

I listen with my bones.
Every secret it shares
comes all at once:
image, ache, whisper, warmth.
Not a thought—
a knowing,
like the current has always
known where to take me.

I used to hold fast to the bank,
afraid the flood would pull me under.
But it isn’t here to drown me.
It lifts. It cradles.
Soft as butterfly wings on still water.

Now I walk with the river,
see the reflections as they come.
The living. The gone.
The quiet things the world forgets to say out loud.

If you’ve ever leaned over water
and heard it hum your name,
you know this place.
You’ve felt the old current—
the one that remembers
what we’ve forgotten.