9.22.25

Words don't come anymore, just shame. This morning I walked my usual path along the small river. Two men sat on the street, weaving fishing nets. I looked at these trees that I could not name. Looking into the water, I felt that I was the color of its silt. I am made of this dirt. Fish bobbed, some grey birds flew across the way to perch on an open branch. The words won't come. There's something in me I can't get out. History, or Language. Or Sadness. Too big for my arms to wrap around. I was asked to come to Earth, so I did. Now I don't remember whose call I was supposed to answer. 

The words fall from me, one by one, like stars too heavy and precious to hold.