The moored waiting of evening,
the patience of an old soul and its afterlife,
the sound of its metered breathing.
Many sacrifices, mistakes, reprieves;
the familiarity of losing. The heart
is not dead when its tongue still speaking
sings or weeps.
See how the untied boat floats away
in rhythmic waves, never sinking.
On some foreign shore is found
by a fisherman.
Its purpose equally returned
to carrying its particular burden,
a well-worn saddle,
a spoon for soup, a hat
in a storm, a prayer
in the form of being.