The mala around your wrist is meant
to remind you to go back to the stone-year.

When you were cold, locked out,
cocooned, no one called.

Tone deaf and friendless, you decided:
less collage, more song.

More song meant you got limber,
abandoned the agreed-upon ocean.

You remember it as difficult,
but that part was easy.

If time can unmoor itself and cast off
so can you—