Going home the longest way around,

we tell stories, build

from fragments of our lives

maps to guide us to each other.

We make collages of the way

it might have been

had it been as we remembered,

as we think perhaps it was,

tallying in our middle age

diminishing returns.



Last night the lake was still;

all along the shoreline

bright pencil marks of light, and

children in the dark canoe pleading,

“Tell us scary stories.”

Fingers trailing in the water,

I said someone I loved who died

told me in a dream

to not be lonely, told me

not to ever be afraid.



And they were silent, the children,

Listening to the water

Lick the sides of the canoe.



It’s what we love the most

can make us most afraid, can make us

for the first time understand

how we are rocking in a dark boat on the water,

taking the long way home.