Kathleen,
I too have built fires in my time
and hoped
for sparks to fly
from the ashes and embers of earlier pyres:
sacrifices to the moon and stars.
I could show you the scars
from bending too close, breathing
the soft winds of life
over the fading coals.
But I will carry your wings for you,
draped like lace around my shoulders;
though I’m scared of your heights,
though our dreams do not lift each other.
This poem to you is a letter
to myself
written on water.
A photograph of fog:
crab-scuttles on sand;
ephemeral, and yet the effect lingers
changing,
ever so slightly,
the path of my life.