If life is a journey

   upon one craft, hewn by my own flawed hand,

   how dark the night, when moon's no more than scythe

   and waves, in tempest waged by consequence or fate,

      lash reprimand.

Love must as a child's small fingers be,

   guileless, pulling clouds away—

  the vault from storms unpinned;

I see you there, 

  my north star, my friend.