A grey squirrel sits where the tree house was.

Broken slats nailed to the bark hang loose as if now

even the tree allowed no girls to ascend.

Going back requires hope and defies

longing, is never a return to what was

but to what is now not. 

May you begin a new day

With abandon and passion

Hold within you the knowing

Wounds are possibilities

Made manifest at the edge-tip

Of scratchy pens and sharpened tongues.

May you believe the word 

1. Gate of Shadows

where the light is dim

they press into each other

overlap like ink wash

or black tissue collage

push forward, ask to be seen

recognized as they once were:

a mother with long-distance eyes

a father who needed buttresses