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when you approached the river you greeted it gently

a hand, a foot, a leg, an arm

you let it wash over your body and took a deep breath of icy cold air

you coated your lungs with frost

you spoke to the currents with grace

inhaling deeply, submerging your head

feeling the soft scrape of pebbles against your bare elbows as you dove down

it spoke back

a small school of fish whisking quickly by

a plant tendril grazing your stomach

you’d never felt so full

of life

what does it mean to know something

you were born by the water, you’ll die by it too

there’s something comforting about having your life

mapped out by the waves in the ocean, the grains of sand on the shore

the grooves in the trunks of the trees,

the whisper of the wind through the tall grass

what does it mean to be known

being lost on the land is never something that has occurred to you

how can you be lost when these hills raised you

up, growing until your face was known by the branches

when you emerge from the river, you’ll shake with cold

but you’ll be

fine as your hair, tangled up in a tight embrace with river debris

and the towel with cartoon characters on it

you’ll never part with

this land, it knows you more than anyone else

when you grow up and move away and half forget this

you will have a daughter

she will run through dense grassy fields

barefoot screaming

with laughter

when you hold her tiny hand as she stares in awe

up at the dark trees around you

you’ll wonder how you can fear something she holds

in her heart with such reverence

in her hands are the giant maple leaves

you once traced as a child onto wrinkled sheets of paper

for a while, you’ll forget where you are

you’ll be held by the soil while you hold her

the noise of the wind in the trees and the cawing of the birds

will fade to a lullaby

as you’re cradled once again