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.