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, shimmering on the water

the moon invites the eye to go deep,

everything trembling in this light

speaking through shadows;

if I had the courage

I’d live 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

golden light quickening

as the almost dead arise

from their obsession

into dew soaked grasses

trembling with the life of water

the harmonic stirring, awakening

the whole world over.

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.