that has carried us between
family and friends, sharing
stories and meals, planning
and remembering, feeling
the rise of old feelings that pull
like an undertow, and relishing
new experiences that carry us
like rapids so that we don’t have
time to take in all we are feeling
has left me exhausted and exuberant.
I’m back in old places, but the
water is new; things are not the same,
except, it seems, for the things I
wish would be different. The rocks
that would break our boats never move.
Tonight, as we stood on the porch and
the rain percussed on the tin roof, and
we stared out across the dry river bed
in the valley below, I could not help
but believe that all that was being
washed down the hillside would not be
lost, but would feed the strong current
that will carry us on into the days to come.