What if you are in a place fire can’t burn?
Fish, that’s your home.
Knives can’t cut water
and no one has fists.
I see the amber rooms underneath
where light meets green
and nymphs of mayflies hide beneath jeweled shells
as if the gold of sun is not enough.
Among the old leaves you hide,
sliver of fish, like a small moon alone
where the currents move you
slightly, veils of fins waving.
Fish, don’t you hear the river calling you?
You live in a place knives don’t cut.
Fish, with the eye that never closes,
I want to follow you
to the wide, wide waters.