I spawn      on disparate scraps   of marshes, each one

cuddled by grey-filled lakes.   In them could be some large fish

         staring up at me,          wondering food.

But I have nothing   more to offer     to the sensitive mind,

                   my gold mouth finally spent.

      The sky, bleached, cattails blown apart      by the wind,

make me simple.    To know this   is not about surrender.

         If the distant dogwood could     bend.

If the mangroves can drink its fill.   Once, I would have sunk

                   into the deep water to discover

      how much I am               wanted.

How much I wanted myself.   Today, the weather is just fine.

It is winter,   no bird chirps.      The sun is hiding or I am

                   just not seeing it.

All around, movement.         The lake lapping the dirt,

the hum of a train     not too far behind, my breath   disrupting.

Below me, the wet ground     shifting. Views, each

         more memorable than the last,

      flee past           my stunned self. Still, nothing.

I must be patient.     Sink it in.     I am only out   sightseeing

         to make living an act

                              unforgettable.