Illuminations at Little Presque
When the bone-smooth, piled driftwood is gone,
and the sand turns cold against your feet,
and your hopes to touch and be touched
disappear with the bonfire’s thin snake of smoke:
find your way back through the woods.
Look up. The map will appear. Lift and steer
your maiden chin through that celestial course.
Trust the sky to guide you through the pitch,
avoiding the dark swaths where pinetops erase stars.
When you stumble, let your body sink
into the cushion of moss and fallen pine needles.
