White Flag Waver

the rounded rocks
of Fundy beaches
are hardly a welcoming walk
I trip and twist my way along
marking time to the tidal clock
between craggy cliffs
and icicles crashing
the sound of winter rundown ringing
what I’m bringing to the sullen shore
(is the sickness and the cure)
the lonesome things I’m thinking
from missing her more than ever
the girl who always brings with her
(spring weather)

do you wonder
why I talk about
these parts of me beside myself?
the sound of speaking that I hear
with no one else around
some say their still, small voices
should be given proper credit
to the god, the ghost, the ancestor
they find themselves most missing
but I’m content with listening
to what might just be me
one of a breathless
billion rocks
sent rolling
by the sea

I want to talk about this:
my most significant silences
so if you think I speak too much
on the scale of life, it’s not enough
I keep myself to myself
save that small sliver I’m giving to you
for all the good men who are mostly fiction
I’ve done my best to be true
I’m maybe mistaken
as a hopeless romantic
by the men who see secrets
as something worth keeping
and sharing, the same as surrender
maybe that makes me
the white flag waver
or the lover who hangs
your sheets on the line
and says: “the more
that you are yours
they more
that you
are mine”

~ ~ ~

February 17, 2026
Chipman Brook, Nova Scotia

Year 19, Day 6673 of my daily journal.