Kathryn 君妍 Lennon

My feet will me to estuary.

To both
來 and going. Both
開 and narrowing. Both
start of sea and end of 河.

A grandfather stops to look north at 山
then pluck juice boxes
like fireweed
from garbage can.

A runner stops to look west at 水
then stretch one leg
like blue heron
balancing in place.

I am learning that my parents are not encyclopedias,
that my father will lose the names of trees
and my mother will lose the names of food,
that as they are forgetting
I am memorizing
to meet rising tide and pounding rain.