Only because it is my hand

Someone once said the sound

of water is the sound of ghosts -

smiling, as if it were a joke.

But I know now.

I am no longer the robin,

nor the fragile egg it once was.

I have learned that every sound 

tells the truth. I stand behind the

waterfall and slip my hand into its voice,

gently, as if one noise might quiet 

another inside me.

Maybe it is something

that was once a cosmic loss -

and now I am content feeling doomed,

a walking contradiction

learning to rest with complications.

I draw my hand back.

Not from fear. Not from tiredness.

Only because it is my hand.

And that feels lovely.