Pour

 From mind to page,
page to mind,
or light

 through window.
Fluid
like a swallow flight

 lip of pitcher, lifted,
tilted

 as land tilts
to sea,
as sea is tipped by tide
onto the shore,
 everything spills
into something else

 These buttercups pour yellow
on the grass;
the snake flows

 from his skin.
My pencil spills

 these words.
You, reading them,
splash a little of yourself

 back into me.

 Judy Weber, from Island Voices, by permission of the author