Driving over the seasonal sea that washes
under the causeway, river overflow
flooding rice fields before the crop is planted,

I look at the little islands with their reedy
crewcuts popping out of water.

Pulling my eyes from the road, I search
for a great egret tall on black-stockinged legs,
taking a moment’s pause in the business
of wading through wetlands, searching
for sustenance.

I wonder what it might take to pull you out.

Could I row a small boat to where you stand,
seemingly lost in the murk?

Could I toss a life buoy down the hole
where you find yourself, persuade you to grab it,
let me pull you to the surface?

Or do I wait, breathing in your sorrow
about what has come, what is sure to come,
breathing out peace and ease?

Simply wait. Listen.

It is the hardest thing to not do.