I see the gleam in the grit,
The gentle wind behind the freight train,
The incalculable effects of the ripple
As stones collect- your deepest pool lain with river rocks, an enchanting place to play, is but a few selections, an abridged chapter.

I don't care what stage your polish is on. I love you.

You keep me coming back.
No matter how clogged my mind gets,
Or the speed at which the cargo train flashes, the coursness of sand-on-stones, thr slightness of the ripple just a moment after the rock sinks,
I think, prehaps, that part of me
Is really made
Of the memory of You,
Of You and me in what to me is as distant a future as past was to past and for you is is bleeding, throbbing, whiring with love and hope,
Of us together in our everlasting, You in I in me in You.
I think that that is what made me, and that part of me pre-remembers with the resonance of eternity,
And that is why I keep on coming back.

I wrote that my
Eight year old
Is no longer screaming,
That a loving hand
Watered the budded rose
Deep within him
And therefore me,
And thereby changed
EVERYTHING,

Now life is like walking
Across an ancient battlefield,
I know for sure
That armed struggle
And violence took place
Right where I walk,
But now the breeze
Carries only the sound
Of bird's songs

My feet swish through
Meadow grass,
No longer mud
From Flanders fields,
I like,
No in fact I love
Walking here now,
Will you perhaps
Come walk here too?

"No," he said quite softly, tender sorrow in his eyes.
"I always wanted you to grow up. But I never meant for you to stop being a child."