Monday, December 17, 2018

Where One Travels

Where One Travels

Where solitude reconciles with inspiration ...
That place, that wide intersection, bound firmly by imagination:
proliferant brine or the silky-gritty cascade of sand over toes ...

I was accused then of being morose, even dour.
Chin up, expressionless, adding my addled self to the artless breeze,
trying for more, ever more, as so happened times like these.

How many times did I walk this vacant beach,
where inestimable peace meets unfathomable power,
where lofting gulls kept my vacant company,
where their sky-puppeteer
paints herself in gleaming patches over this gold-flecked band
shimmering at the edge of everything ...

Painful brushstrokes, yes;
simplicity at war with biting need.
I prayed aloud only when my
skipping heart could no longer contain its beauty,
fatigued from wishing myself past the sharp Pacific horizon.

Those days ended without noticing me.
Every one of them.

Morose? Dour?
My life,
my path,
my last shot at something resembling integrity,
my last leap for redemption.

Perhaps what was seen behind my eyes was
the deliquescing shadows of dead days
under hostile peaks gratefully very far away.
It is impossible, after all, to see one's new path
without also considering the dirt one
has already trod upon.


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