When the river speaks
I am inclined to listen,
for it is not often
she has something to
say, but she did that
day, out of pity,
maybe, came her
warning, but I
already knew.

That all memories
are pieces thrown into
a basket, and now and
then we pluck them out
for our tender hearts
to either weep or smile
over, and baby, smiling
is all I can do. We
grow barbed wire
otherwise, and I
don't want to bleed
internally forever,
so just remember the
way the leaves spun
round like a ball
dance, how the sun
blushes because we
call morning beautiful,
let the stars
brighten your night
(and don't forget
to smile.)