I wear a mark of memory and promise,
a saint’s medallion, strung on links of silver
running round my neck.
A gift of love
given on a day when everything seemed
too much. Too hard. Too sad.
In a year when the path was
lost and unsure.
A pendant of St. James. The pilgrim’s saint.
He calls me down the road,
reminding me that I am motion-born,
and that only footsteps stand
between the journey and the fear.
I hold his token when I sleep, or think, or fret,
a bit of bright hope hung over my heart
that says
tomorrow is another day for walking.
