The ripple is the water’s echo, an open mouth,
a gem in the void, an outstretched ivory palm,
the ripple I cannot touch.
The drop is the water’s child, a pomegranate seed,
a stitch in the fabric, one lonesome tear,
the drop I cannot taste.
The bank is the water’s edge, a beginning,
an earthy embrace, a colored nest against sunset,
the bank I cannot trust.
The bank I cannot reach.
The mouth I cannot drink from.
My feet hang near the water, and the waters
Hang down to the sea.
Cathy Guo, age 15