The long and short of the past
pulls at the soft undercurrent of hard tales
exposing the haunting of our hallways.
We try to separate the pain, dripping the
soap of half-truths onto the dirt, reducing
surface tension; don’t be the first to throw
a stone at sin.
High tide doesn’t blame the shoreline for being
in the way, nor does a valley curse a bridge
for connecting two sides of land.
There’s a story every day. A spark from the sun,
silence form the moon. It’s a beginning.