Our voices, a gurgling brook, became your parting song:

a stream grading stones – meandering – where  

bend becomes slope. You teetered in the current – strong,

young – yet bowed by doubts, centuries-old cares.

A stream grading stones, meandering. Where

might we have extracted you, harness and rope,

young – yet bowed by doubts, centuries-old cares?  

Cold depths are ours to brave alone, I was also told.

Might we have extracted you, harness and rope,

what threshold did you cross; what pieces rearrange?

Cold depths are ours to brave alone. I was also told

our troubles wane when guardian spirits learn our names.

What threshold did you cross; what pieces rearrange?

Our voices, a gurgling brook, became your parting song.

Our troubles wane when guardian spirits learn our names,

bend becomes slope. You teetered in the current – strong.