See, there; if you walk slowly enough

the past will not defeat you

but lift you up with the rise of your breath and help you rest

with its fall.  A torrential mess

or absent nest

at first 

it is true,

nothing tidy

yet not all

cruel. It is a morsel

or perhaps a blizzard,

it means no fault

from being of its own. Come now, sit by this grandmother tree, its heart now

seasoned enough by the wait,

and listen to the sighs, alive

with need: here is the tide 

being faithful to its while, 

and the waters as they are lulled back

into keep by the fathomless resilience of the unassailable deep. Here is

the peace of the passing night. A drawing hunger set

down to its right. Evening falls, but dusk has yet to settle.

In this passage grows a care

stark and dear, for when you feel 

claimed

by the hammering cry

of a rushed and insistent way,

remember this,

dear light:

        there is redemption in the slow passage of time,

and refreshment in the wake of a dawn

that has truly arrived . . .

    as the present is not without its forbears,

and can float adrift

    without a base

to feel as its own.