Coracle Means a Small Vessel,
a Boat

You may wonder when the rain
will end. May trace
a map with your gaze
until it snags the flooded
place, the unfamiliar river
blued as church bells, or air
inside an empty shoe. Again
and again, you may begin
the letter. May open
your mouth to speak but stop
when you hear, through
the wall, the voice of one
you love. Remembering
the paddock where the piebald horse
used to rest, you may worry
the word shelter on your tongue. Write
please, write certain, then draw
a line through both. The cherry tree’s
trance of petals tumbled
bit by bit to the sidewalk—months
ago, more. You may print the address
in tender letters, wish that house
far above floodplain, its walls
waveless and the woman inside them
safe. Wonder where the horse, search
for cracks in iron sky. When every violet
map line casts you back
to that other river, always
known: sometimes sharp-surfaced
with sun, and others trembled,
troubled, some storm coming
close, its first drops still
countable, a falling able to be
taken back, vanishing into itself.