Undertow

Beneath the glassy surface, currents move in languages we've forgotten how to speak— dragging small stones toward depths.

Light fractures on the skin of things that ask to be held but slip through fingers like morning into afternoon.

The banks remember each flood, each patient year of shaping, how the river's old names are worn smooth by forgetting.

What we cannot see moves us forward. What we cannot hold defines the shape of our hands.