Thursday, September 2, 2010
With a leaf, I craft a tiny boat,
Stock it with the shadow of memories
and one acorn.
At the water's edge, I see
reflections of lost dreams and hopes,
piercing as thorns.
Close to the surface, I hold
what needs to be washed away
but cannot let go.
Above the chill water, I raise
my arms to the darkening oaks,
then, slowly, know.
In the middle of the stream, I bend,
dripping heartache onto the boat,
as it is claimed by the current.
Each end is a beginning.
This beginning is a gift of that end.
Now I let go.