Solute

 

At your every spring,

we appear.

Silt,

innumerable, staining, arriving

whirling in grain after grain as the tumbling

flow,

the slurry of once shattered

snow.

 

To follow us

is to

let

go

of all that was frozen in breathtaking

clarity

and even the rushing, messy, fragrant music

of unconfined hope

for

mercy,

all the while knowing that not even

this

will catch you —

as you have never

not once

left

the ground.

 

Hope is a story you do not need,

for you are both source

and solution.

You

are

mercy

 itself.