questions for the water

her life was on her face,

all their signatures.

every kiss and argument.

she knew that bliss

walks hand in hand

with sorrow. she asked

the naked willows

bent beside the brief
november stream, but

they shared no truths,

because fallen leaves

write no scripts

and she was not

conversant with

the language of trees.

her bath was never

long enough, no big

questions ever answered,

just the water,

obedient to

the planet's spin,

bearing her small,
but unforgotten bits,
spiraling down the drain.