When your matchless woes meet the seamless stretch of dusk,

and the last wisps of darkest night part for it,

and memory becomes hazy, less insistent upon its way;

when your thoughts creep out, undecided, but curious,

and venture out to something they don’t yet know

but from which they no longer hide;

when all those bruises, brought to ripeness

are more visible but less painful, and 

you begin to wonder why they’re there,

where they came from, their purpose;

when tides again rise and fall, taking out

the bad with the good, the sand with the treasure,

and your shores appear complex but not strange;

when clouds and sky appear unyielding but conciliatory

in their pronouncements, less wanton in demand,

and you remember your green from their grey;

when friends no longer squint or squirm or hide their

skeptical smirks, but raise a glass to your shared blemishes,

and arms link with stories told and mouths, made

joyful-heavy with wine sing wordless songs;

when all this combines to reveal what is

seeking you –

then.