On this dog-eared page of what's past,
I am walking where the pines peel back
scraps of bark beside the river. There,
with small stones and water, I am allowed
to be lost. I don't yet know what lonely is
or what the balking geese seem to say,
but I am young and I need to tell you.
I am retracing my father's steps
in hopes of finding my way out.
And in this I am learning what children learn
when dropping stones into a river.
There are so many ways to sink.
So many ways to lose a life
to swift-moving water.