Rising

 

Beluga whales bump 

to the surface

of rising waters,

 

knocking your grip 

from time 

passing,

nodding with a slow wink 

whiter 

than any knuckle 

that holds your days 

together.

 

Slipping on autumn’s slide

they swim toward their harvest

like a fistful of feathers

or bright, singular moons,

supported in the arc of their seas.

 

  So little depends 

on so much

 

when you trust your own sky.

Set down your ballast and 

watch

as they glide through armfuls of 

flashing stars,

diving among multitudes

 

to surface at your side, 

blowing, inhaling,

filling

as your own moon rises,

one full

breath

at a time.