January Drifts

We will not gather here again.
You slip through time, I stand
On a vacant shore. Your small boat
Catches waves, drifts, swells,
Whitecaps and breakers. We might once
Have toyed with these, or, toppled, righted.
Anymore, we are stranded. I haven’t arms
To keep you afloat. All our terrors,
Our worried minds, our loves–
We kick them off, like heavy shoes.
We tread, we huddle, we drift
So long we feel like creatures
Of the sea, hardly able to breathe.
The currents move so quick,
The horizon always shifts.

Author: Janice

A creative. Lifelong Marylander. After many odd jobs of adolescence and college, have always worked as a writer and published essays, op-eds, articles, and poetry in national news media and small presses. Collection of poetry, "Saturday at the Gym", about boxing, aging, and motherhood; collection of artwork and poetry, "What Are Mothers For?" On the verge of an empty nest for the first time in 30 years, my question is: What am I for? View all posts by Janice