Before It was Said

Listening to clicks
of the water heater settling

after a morning of introspection

on the white side of cedar leaves.

I never blink when I want to become.

There is no noise to emulate

when you sit in a still puddle

and wait for a lotus to sprout from the top

of your head. If I stay where I am,

I am at the end of a destination.

It would be desert without shrubs

or sand: motion of leaving

and returning to the time when my name

was about to be spoken by my mother –

her existence wanting nothing but an utterance.