Kinds of Honey

So we hung our heels

in that dark water

with the sheen of night

on it, spilling silver

over our heads, so many

young God-seekers.

.

This was the time when

campers slept and we, the staff,

came here to rest, to speak

in whispers of things

we weren’t sure of. Things

we feared, things hoped for.

.

Sometimes of confessions,

one to another, sins unforgotten,

lingering scars a challenge

to the kind of forgiveness

we sang about. Or dreams

in colors that might be only

for books, or for the best of people,

and the wondering if it was

wrong to hope so deeply.

.

And, so often, the old question,

in the knowledge of, despite grace,

common human judgment:

.

“Who will love me?”

.

Trace a toe in the water.

Wait for assurance. The weight

of the moon must be enough.