Gatherings

Gatherings
of spring and winter,
one after one, spinning
incandescent recollections
of beach-glass
battered smooth to stone,

and summers,

leaping
from handhold
like toddlers
wanting to walk
and stumble, and find.

I long to move
along rivers,
and fields that are like rivers,

and good parts of
forgotten towns,

shrug off those
flown-over miles

and bend down to
sift fingers
through them;
sew myself
into the hems of
slow storms

and sap-encased days,

and surround each second
with what I have been given
to give.

I name each one of them;
weave and wear them
like a tapestry
of rain-filled culverts
and sun-roughened
lift bridges
that live
to move through all the
worlds in the tired world.

I am still gathering them to me,
and there is no shame is
in that.