credo

 

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You say wind is only wind

and carries nothing nervous

in its teeth. I do not believe it.

I have seen leaves desist from moving

although the branches move,

and I believe a cyclone has secrets

the weather is ignorant of. I believe

in the violence of not knowing.

I’ve seen a river lose its course

and join itself again, watched it court

a stream and coax the stream

into its current, and I have seen rivers,

not unlike you, that failed to find

their way back. I believe in the rapport

between water and sand, the advent

from mirror to face. I believe in rain

to cover what mourns, in hail that revives

and sleet that erodes, believe

whatever falls is a figure of rain,

and now I believe in torrents that take

everything down with them.

The sky calls it quits, or so I believe,

when air, or earth, or air has had

enough. I believe in disquiet,

the pressure it plies, believe a cloud

to govern the limits of night. I say I,

but little is left to say it, much less

mean it—and yet I do. Let there be

no mistake. I do not believe

things are reborn in fire.

I believe they’re consumed by fire,

and the fire has a life of its own.

—Andrew Zawacki

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