Yes, there we were, on the floor of your room,
talking at length of your mother––
counting her scars like the rings of a tree
tell stories of lightening and thunder.
You couldn’t live on in that fallen world,
no matter the love or the treasure
––both buried alive,
under ground and with time
that we count on our hands and by weather
Whose spirits are these,
now speaking in tongues
on top of us all and each other––?
challenging sleep and the peace of our hearts
to a rage that might still pull us under.
But drawn to the streets by voices that live
much nearer to ground than to heaven
––we’ll gather around the fire next time
heading back up where it came from
There’s light in the boats rocking
here at the rails,
gone quiet and still with the evening––
while voices wear on in the rooms up above,
brought lower with tenderness deepening;
as here we are now looking out at the sea,
on our knees as we call it in closer
––never too sure just how we will keep
such a bird if she lands on our shoulder