Something New Grows Each Year

Nights are like beads on a string
that keeps breaking.
I never know whether I'm awake or not,
or human.
You, round limbs and eyes,
a wail like a river
spilling its banks; me, 
the forest that you
wind through nightly, daily.
Or me, the river, and you,
the fish, pushing against
my currents, finding your way
back to the source,
insisting survival.
I can shoot milk across the room—
that's my superpower.
Yours is to need everything
I can possibly give you. 
This was long ago now,
but I keep losing my footing,
learning anew how to stand,
how to hold you.
Home recreates itself,
building, breaking, taking root.
The old trees fall 
and catch seeds in their 
rotting trunks.
Something new grows
each year, something
surprising.