When I watch the fishes in their tank,
that crystal stillness,
set apart from the rumblings of the city out the window,
the filter-soft bubbles cascading,
the plants breathing to them—
I see only their ballet.
They are water, they are breath,
they are words that will never be words.
They are also the rumbling.
They are the rumbling filtered
through a joyful heart, a broken heart, any heart.
They are all the words that will never be born,
to this morning, or any morning.
The silent ripples of life’s arabesques.
That they don’t know it is the beauty; it’s much of the draw.
They who have no words
swim what cannot be said, and cannot be heard.