On the periphery of my pity party, I hear voices, kind and gentle. They will not participate in my whining, my subtle moaning, my choruses of “if only I had ...” 

When I imagine what they will say when I tell them of my sorrows, they refuse to join me, even then. 

My melancholy is for one adventure or another that I waited to launch, some accomplishment unaccomplished, that when completed, would have exonerated me from some of the shame I carry in my overloaded rucksack. It is for the opportunities I failed to seize and shake until they submitted. 

I try to imagine the gentleness at my borders reprimanding me for not starting sooner, not acting faster, not choosing discipline over doubt. 

But my kind voices will not sing the songs that I have composed for my folly. Some festival it is, accompanied by dirge after solemn dirge. 

Instead they beckon me to lean closer and hear their words, to hum their peaceful tunes. As I relent and relax into their swayings, my heart recognizes their stories and I am powerless to not believe and I rest. 

cool autumn morning —

mist rises from the river

A ribbon of light