Your words
Would burst up through
The grikes and clints
A sweet green grout
That took root
Under the gray slab
And each word
A grass moth
Gathering sugar
From the Milkwort
For the cold days
To come.

You were always
Kind to me
In this river of life
With its currents
And hidden undertows
And the things
That scared me into
Threading.
I was no Otter
I never learned
The playful art
Of splashing
Through the sunny
Moments
While the clouds
Gathered like sisters
But you always
Got me moving.
Using words
Like steps
Filling my page
With courage.