to each of you: know that
you are the stones that sit in the river of my heart
and not the water rushing around them,
you are the trees that grow along its banks
and not the leaves on the trees,
you are the beaten tracks that girdle those old hills
and not the pilgrims.
because you are not the leaves, the water, or the wanderers,
I can say your names without malice or hurt
merely tracing the landscape of this soft place,
my habits and my hurts.