my small fish

Tilicho Lake by David Whyte

In this high place

it is as simple as this,

Leave everything you know behind.

Step toward the cold surface,

say the old prayer of rough love

and open both arms.

Those who come with empty hands

will stare into the lake astonished,

there, in the cold light

reflecting pure snow,

the true shape of your own face.

My small fish,

You sleep 

with the creek 

running through you. though 

you might think 

you are 

falling 

behind,

no, it’s not true—

You sleep 

with the creek 

running through you.

i sit under the crooked yew 

and watch you in the gentle waves 

rain melts into your stream

Water Snaking, body snaking

Serpentine winding, undulating

Swerving, swelling

Sinuous sinew

diap