The Mississippi speaks
in the same old rhythm:
light skirting across water
like a heron unsure
where to land,
late afternoon thunderclouds
dusking the horizon.

The trees let go their leaves
in calm manner,
falling like browned letters.
Nothing begs to remain.

I walk by riverfront shop windows,
my reflection layered
with brand-name clothes
I’ll never purchase,
mannequins waiting patiently.
I, too, am learning to stand
without being chosen.

Still, the world continues to present itself:
riverlight, leafsound,
a sparrow lifting its chest
for a quick breath.
That small animal joy
proof the heart bruises
but stays open,
like water,
like a mouth
brave enough
to speak again.

Previously published in Neologism Poetry Journal