If I were a brook I would unwind
like a spool in the sun, shake my green
maracas with sequined stones.

If I were a beet in the soil I’d pulse
like a heart, pull myself out
of my muddy shroud.

If I were a bowl of new
steamed rice I’d curl fringes of steam
and float a grateful face above it.

All over the newly bare field, melting
voices— whispering, murmuring, sighing
and gurgling a hundred ways at once.

—Luisa A. Igloria
02 18 2011

In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.