The hat drops over his ears

bill straight, uncurved,

a slight angle to the side

though not yet the full teen rake;

he’s turning twelve this year

in first year of middle school,

the growing strangeness

of encyclopedic social rules,

protocols ever changing

in the hormonal entry zone

charged like summer lightning.

I stumble along in conversation

with questions boring even to me

until the fog clears with intent:

we will go to the mountain

where our story lives in the stones,

listen to the old voices and look

to the swaying green tablet

with roots down in the mystery;

when he asks for what he wants

something will open in the sky

and he will have what he needs

for the next steps forward.

By day the light upon water
is brilliant and bright,
securing the outlines
of what is safe and real;
by night, now shimmering
the moon invites the eye deeper,
everything trembling in this light,
speaking through shadows.
If I had the courage
I’d live in the night wonder,
walking forest paths
with slivers of silver
breaking through the trees,
at peace in the stillness,
awake from my dreams.

The sound of your voice
lifts the autumn wind,
a golden light quickening
the almost dead as they rise
from their obsession
into dew soaked grass
trembling with the life of water.

When wind and sea collide

a third way will be found

of eddy line beside jagged rock

where water shapes a counter flow

to release the conflict.

We tell our stories

in black and white, yes or no

yet in the way of water

there are many paths

of current and choice.

Learning to yield

and seek the ocean’s reach

I rest upon stones

the ebb tide uncovering

all that darkness, obsidian

like shimmering mussels

breathing in the light of day.