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"Two Rivers Speak"

Beneath the ice,

I am still moving.

You can’t see it from the bank,

but the push is there —

steady as breath,

older than frost.

Across the sea,

a card you keep in a drawer

still hums when you touch it —

quayside stone,

a smear of light on water,

the ghost‑ink of a name

you once answered to.

We are not the same river,

but we share the pull:

one in your marrow now,

one in your hand like a dare.

Let the postcard be a charm,

but not a tether.

Let the ice be a mirror,

but not a wall.

Your soul is its own current.

Your voice is the thaw.