Bird silhouettes go up and down the laddered
dogwood branches; in the ditch, a strip of open water.
How do they thrive upon so little?
Their shadows ripple like blooms upon the open water.
Riding back from the city on a train, swaths
of farmland, then the flash of open water.
The days, so cold and riddled with damp rain.
And still I’d rather have the clarity of open water.
These months and years have strung their tears
and prayers together: o grant us passage now to open water.
—Luisa A. Igloria
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry (via Blackberry).