the crashing heaves of emotion stay constant and in-motion

Walking along these valleys of lows, I fight my way upward with navigation by stars, like a sailor abandoned at sea. But my lifeboat keeps losing air.

I keep getting distracted as you talk about your day. I am trying to focus on your words, but I am looking at you from across the table and your inner child is palpable tonight.

I can't help but imagine you as a boy, full of hope and mischievous wanderlust. I consider what games you used to play as an only child raised in the country, and whether you created imaginary playmates to play along.

Did you stay outside, nestled by the Southern bluegrass, until the Sun resigned in the evening?

Did your mother serve supper on the porch while the backlight of fireflies and cicada ambiance played?

During the hours closing before bed, did you listen by the fire to stories about the Old South?

Did you feel swaddled-away from the industrial world in your life of antiquity held safely between the Appalachia range?

And the rivers that snaked through your charming vale: did the Earth feel alive, as though exhaling with the oxygen that was carried like blood in its water?

I cried after dinner, and you asked me what was wrong. I shrugged-off the question because I couldn't explain it. It wasn't that I was sad, but, rather, I was so completely moved by you:

And my tears

filled the ocean

with endless love

and inspiration.