I do not know
that there isn’t a revolution
brewing

I do not know for a fact
that the bees aren’t plotting
a comeback

Can you say for certain that the dead are really gone?

Do you have it on good authority
that my brother is not standing downstream
waiting to drink from the river you muddy?

Who pulled me from my mother?
Who will bury me?
I do not know
what hopes the mountains have placed in me
what songs may sprout from the desert I water inside of me

So I move gently and with purpose.