I believe the weave of cotton

will support my father's knees,

but no indulgences will change hands.

 

I believe nothing folds easily,

but that time will crease—

retrain the mind.

 

I believe in the arrowheads of words

and I believe in silence.

 

I believe the rattle of birch leaves

can shake sorrow from my bones,

but that we all become bare at our own pace.

 

I believe the songs of childhood

follow us into the kettles of age,

but the echoes will not disturb the land.

 

I believe the reach of the kayak paddle

can part the blue corridor of aloneness,

and that eyes we see in water are never our own.