It is not unlike me,

to breathe through my fingers.

I often do not see but the rippling

of half truths and dreams.

Words that, once uttered,

drift downstream to be swallowed

by trout.

This is not new to me,

but feeling it this way,

in this life,

is a bejeweled treat.

Once I was meek.

I was beaten by

furrowed brows,

and bellowing clouds,

and for a time,

I cowered.

This new drift,

the sun rippled sand and stone,

and the prickled feeling

of a spine;

this distance between

you, and me,

this is a twist.

The strength of current,

and good weather,

and the drift of words

downstream,

by God,

I will rise up out of the water,

one day,

and leave you

to catch up with

your own

drifting words.