Splashing

By Finn Wagner

the clouds speak to me

through rhythmic tapping droplets

on my open palm

what was She saying

on the night i was welcomed

by mother’s soft hold

when the speckles spit

against the hospital’s pane?

words i can’t yet speak

maybe, She can speak

the native tongue of children

before language takes

its hold to confine

them. that is the dialect

the body knows best

so i now wiser

in my hands can trace these lines

of water splashing.

By Finn Wagner