Tides of silence, then movement
between us. Fingertips grazing the space
we hold sacred—like ferns, curling
toward the soft light that rests here, quiet.
It’s not a good look to care so much
in the 21st century—to want words
like turmoil and mean every bit.
The stars I watched made me small again,
and I believed I could forget you—you,
one of many, wholly wanted, footfalls of moon and stone.
Rising up in my everyworld,
you’re my welcome ghost.
Bend your light my way a little,
lead me to any old hallowed place.
I catch your gaze before it slips,
and the hush rushes back in—
all the best parts of the world
covered with needles and cones.
Stars, trees, and sea—you are the quiet
I suffer in gladness.