this piano bench, salt-streaked andleaking sheets of filigree
has tonight become a lifeboat
pitching on the swell
the weathered rail, the steel twice-blessedat which you weep is sinking slowly,
but you do not raise your head
for you know the way, the truth, the life
and I wonder as we wavejust what you are praying
and if God loves music
just as much upon the open sea
what we cannot sweep away
I write my story at my bestin choice and generosity
in worlds embraced
and sometimes rugs
pulled up to cover what
I cannot sweep away.
Most of all I write
The fire tower on Norwattuckis still ablaze with morning light
and maybe that is why we see
each other clearly now
some twenty years removed.
For we are oak trees in a mist
dependable and knowing
long limbs dancing in the wind.
I called into the rolling mistlast night while you were running
eyes bright and laughing
as a six-year-old.
In the dark I pulled the rug around me.
once again, but this time without fear,
while the shifting breezes called your name.
Born and raised in London, England, Andrew Kreider has lived for over twenty years in northern Indiana. He has published three chapbooks, and has an active poetry blog under the title Penguin Poems. http://thepenguinpoet.com