What I Want to Be

A fife that won’t go out,
the velvet touch of darkness,
a breeze catching a small child’s
  fancy
to set her singing
a cloud
stretching
as it loosens into rain.

I want to be dust
caught by the wet
that brings forth weeds
and wildflowers;
the pigs’
mudwallow;
a deep-tracked road
leading to and from a farm,
hearing trucks roll over me
in a language I don’t know.

I’ll enter a small stream
and, lifting up,
through roots and leaves,
be the juice
of the chokecherry
on the woman’s tongue.

She tastes as she’s picking.
It’s a hot day,
her bucket’s nearly full.
She wipes her brow,
bites and tastes
and smiles. I am the fruit
of her labors.