I believe in his foot hitting the accelerator.
I believe in the traffic light, its green fuse over every street.
I believe in bows hemmed in by rain and milk.
The secret places we go: old Yoder Road, lots behind the gutted saw mill.
Heaven, Nick jokes, is the back of his car.
I believe ephemerals.
Turnips push, radishes root down.
I believe the cracked mounts nurse the oil leak, steady shiver in the light.
I believe in creek, corn and sycamore, vastness broken where thorns unwind.
I believe in the lake, turtles tucked in burrows, their drowsing three-chambered hearts.
I believe our hands in the icy water. I’m a kid, and then I’m not.
I believe in the crumbling elm, which owes nothing to memory.
Let the loons lift. Let the past recede into rapeseed.
Faith is the shrinking distance between his mouth and mine.
I believe the fate of the shoreline.
I believe cattails shattering into seed.
Nothing can stop the waves.
Let the fish strain against fish lines.
Let the bloody pliers tear out the hooks.
Childhood & Coming of Age
Faith & Hope
a figure of speech in which words repeat at the beginning of successive clauses, phrases, or sentences
a comparison between two unrelated things through a shared characteristic
a recurrence of the same word or phrase two or more times