In the beginning, there was
Before my first chestnut tree or Memories of scraping full baby Hands across white carpet, of struggling to stand was
Rivers, spoken by my grandmother.

The flow of Langston Hughes and there was
Significance in simple words I knew.
And a river out of one wide plastic window, a cable car, two chairs over water, and floor tiles colored
saffron on snow.

And me, slowly wondering
At the taste of dust in my mouth
At one hand following the other
At my grandmother's tan skin.

And her wrists supporting a gathering
Of slim gold bracelets,
Coins stacked on stones
Heavy in the warmth of noon.