Our Congregation

Your hair was
wet when you
told us, someone
has to come get
me. You’d waded
with your jewelry
on, your fingers
had pruned. I
never want to leave
the river, you
told us. You did.
So we’re turning

into slick, granite
stone for you,
trees for you, water
that washes, rushes
over, carries and
holds you, and
tells you, you never
have to leave.