I wave my oar to you,
as you stand upon the bank.
In a row boat
full of corked up holes
and lichen jewelry.
I am trying to smile at you,
but it might look like a grimace today.
Heh.
You know,
we’ve never been good at smiling
on demand.
A rushing river,
a quiet pond,
a stormy sea,
a puddle,
they all just look like water from here.
It’s foggy, though.
I can’t see what’s in the distance.
The water is quite choppy now.
I must seem a stranger.
I love you all the same.
I’ve made progress on our favorite
wrinkle.
It is now here to stay.
I don’t have a silver lining.
I don’t know if it gets better.
Everything happens,
but if there is a reason
I don’t have it to share with you.
I’m sorry.
I have no knowing of
what experiences have been
worth it.
I have no experience without them.
Life journeys on.
I have a smaller voice than I wanted,
and I am afraid you do, too.
I know, this is a lot to take in.
There was room for two.
A cast of ghosts has filled
the abandoned space.
It’s a bit crowded.
They are as friendly as seven years can be.
Listen, please,
to one more ramble
before the water takes me on.
You need to know about these corks
and where they are from.
They are cobbled together
with our capacity to love.
Hold onto that tightest.
I need it for all the corks I have made.
Who knows,
this boat might only be made of corks
when we are through.
Be brave, Love.
Put your boat into the water.
In seven years,
I will be you.
