Water Paper Ink
I have hands that write language
in the river and ears that hear new ones
in the rapids. Even with the spring floods,
everything written in the river is permanent,
recorded in the echo, imbedded in the silt.
The sediment contains a library of pasts,
presents, and futures; a lexicon of layers.
All of the words filed away, settled and preserved
until foot, hoof, claw or boat dredge
and unsettle; the tomes crease open,
billow up into the water as a cloud.
Flecks of sand and soil shining
like diamonds in the sunlight,
each of them a new word
or a dead language unearthed
after millennia of silence and drought.
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