I was in a kayak September 11, paddling in the serene waters of Puget Sound with my husband and four friends. Just before launching our boats, a friend called with news of the plane crashes at the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. We phoned family to reassure and be reassured that everyone was where they were supposed to be.

I am threadbare, worn and weary,
tired,
spent, with the cost of understanding.

“It’s twenty-one minutes before the hour.”

The radio announcer’s voice is cheerful, but the words sound ominous. Before the hour of what. Death? I shudder.

When we light a candle,
we proclaim that together,
with the power of our humanity,
we will illuminate the darkness.

We are fragile,
like a tiny clamshell
bourne out on the water
floating boat-like