Your Name Means An Open Meadow

Nothing my father told me
could've prepared me for this.

To be completely honest,
I feel powerless in your presence
as you sit here a few feet from me
on this lonely rock we found
lost on this stream of Molawin.

I sense a gentle storm
brewing between your fingers
clasped on the sides of the rock.
A storm of alternating breaths—
how could I ever make sense of it?

By sheer will
you calm all perturbations.
You anchor your feet
in the mud underneath the water
and stir everything submerged.

I can only watch as moss and lichen
bow down in reverence,
as vines wrap this vacuum
between you
and the cupboard
you always leave open
back home.