For decades
I’ve returned
to this rocky outpost,
sat beside this lodgepole pine,
gazed across Rosario Strait.
With wife, daughter,
subsequent lover—
now with only
this borrowed dog.
Sun blurs my tears
into star flies
that moisten lichen,
and call forth a trumpet
of Canada geese.
Somehow
it all makes
sense.

Orcas Island

It took me dedades to discover the cleansing, transforming value of tears. Not the tears of self-referential pain, but rather those stemming from sure knowledgde of the pain I have caused others, and myself. With time, this seems to lead to a grace of genuine sorrow.