Broken pieces,
peeled or chipped away,
reveal
a new, bare slate
with which
I get
to have my way. . .

Whatever way that is. . .
but that’s the thing. . .
it’s all on me–

Which pieces do I keep?
and which to throw
out through the air,
so far I can,
in hopes that they and me
will never share another day?

The murmurs and the mutters
help me to understand
where I can band
with certain sisters,
certain brothers,

And where I will
fare best
to stand foremost
my own deep guide,
when I, in single track,
need stride,

to sculpt the life
I’ll best abide,
before that final evening tide
that pulls me out
from this old place,

Graced, as I pass,
by the wonder
of my passageway
between our world’s glassy waters
and its bright-hued, cloud decked sky,

As everything I see
and I
are changing slow through dusk
to the place I will end up
at my night and journey’s end
on that next, bright-dawning day.