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,
August-greened
trees for you, water
that washes, rushes
over, carries and
holds you, and
tells you, you never
have to leave.