It is time to remember the unfolding,
To remember the river comes to me.
—Meg Kaczyk, from “Still, Life”

•••

I am one of the folded—
like an accordion,
both instrument and file,

the bright yellow origami box
folded by a retired engineering professor
that sat for years on my desk,

the rainbow umbrella waiting
in the hall closet for rain,

my father’s pocketknife that
he used to dig grit from under
his nails,

and my mother’s smaller gold one
that lived on the table beside
her chair in the family room,

ready to open what needed opening.
Like butterflies folding their wings
vertically as they rest,

or the forelegs of a praying mantis
waiting, snapping them out in
50 milliseconds to snatch prey
from the air.

Now to unfold from the crouch,
to slowly uncurl the backbone
like a wave lifting from the base
of the ocean,

taking an upright stance, shake out
the geological folds of tectonic
compression

and remember what wants
remembering, perhaps within
hearing of the river,

whispering, Come in;
the water’s fine.