how could pixie know
her brushstrokes on paper
would haunt my waking
hours, the interplay of light
and shadow
on those turbulent
waves of the past
and our need to turn away
from all that no longer
serves as we face
yet another day,
whether boatman
or ferried passenger
with heads bowed low
from sorrow or grief
and moving (somewhat
reluctantly) our
collective way through
calmer waters to seek
relief on a not
too distant
shore.
