As oar is 
to water is
to boat so
are you to
life are you 
to me that
which moves me 
as sail is
to wind is
to journey so
are you to 
adventure are you 
to conquering me 
and as shore
is to start
is to end
so are you 
to us are
you to me 

Clothes neatly folded 
a few tossed
just litter discarded 
picked up later
as an afterthought 
or battlefield corpses
given life defending 
lost to lust
or to sleep 
me I am 
the one who 
picks up remembering 
I then am
your own memorial 
bearing such witness 

One thing leads
and another follows 
one pulls and
the other pushes
both likely away
like needles that
darn or hook
weave and repair 
beauty in hands
creativity giving birth
or people giving 
each other heartbreak 

When we remember 
we frequently forget 
those things that 
chipped away and 
untied those memories 
we only remember 
what we lost 
never what we 
managed to survive 

I think it’s 
now not then
for then I 
wouldn’t have known 
there was this 
and this missing 
is almost worse
than having never 
for in nothing 
there isn’t anything 
not a pick
mark or shovel 
of turned soil 
but in this 
there’s a rut
which I travel 
to and fro 
round and round 
again and always 
coming back here