I am water, only because you are the ocean.

We are here, only because old leaves have been falling.

A mulching of memories folding into buried hands.

The cliffs we learn to edge. The tree trunk hollowed, humming.

I am a tongue, only because you are the body planting stories with thumb.

Soil crumbs cling to your knees. Small stacks of empty clay pots dreaming.

I am an air plant suspended, only because you are the trunk I cling to.

I am the milky fish eye, only because it's your favorite.

Even the sound you make when your lips kiss the opelu socket is a mo'olelo.

A slipper is lost in the yard. A haku lei is chilling in the icebox.

I am a cup for feathers, only because you want to fill the hours.

I am a turning wrist, only because you left the hose on.

Heliconias are singing underwater. Beetles are floating across the yard.

— When the Light of the World Was Subdued, Our Songs Came Through by Joy Harjo, LeAnne Howe, Jennifer Elise Foerster (Page 249 - 250)