I wish I had answers.
I really do.

I wish I had the secret
to a good night’s sleep,
or that I knew what you mean by
“the best hiking trail”;

I wish I knew how 
to look the devil in the eye,
how to visit all 100 places the magazine says to 
before we leave this world,
how to eject the tape in your head;
or the one in mine;

how to learn the language 
of the horse in summer,
or the wolf in winter,
or how to dance
like they do in the movies;

how to exhude the proper passion,
how to fix the brokenness,
or at least clear the wreckage;
and, perhaps,
why folks bring swords to the dinner table.

(There is a reason, you see,
why I’m on one knee 
when talking to dogs,
or children. 
Do we not all in some way bow
to wisdom and grace?)

So, yes, I wish I knew the secret
of the method
of the madness
of the song
of the soul
of the fire 
and the rain;
or that of your your finely-gathered pain,
which is a gift only to be offered.

Ah. Never mind me.

Here.

I found a piece of driftwood
while walking.

It’s yours.

Gnarled, 
old knots and curves,
scent of earth in spring;
water and wood at last
consummating their affair.

(How else do I explain that,
to me,
your whisper is thunder?)