Circuitous

 

In the far, far places where

mermaids sing and fishes cry for their mothers

there are no sounds

only the soft slapping of waves

 

Your heart stills and your breath sighs raggedly

but your feet keep moving, moving

pushing your warm soft pliant body of

stitched-together skin stretched over tangled red-blue pulsing cords

and hard-breathing whitened bone

to find the spot where sky meets earth

 

You sit and wait

for a sign, a sob, a sweetness

but the roar inside silently deafens

and drowns your fears and ambitions,

grinding past-present-future into a bright purple Now

 

In the far, far places where

mothers sing softly and ancient stones weep

there are no songs and no stones

except in the stillness of memory

and creation of what-comes-next

 

This is your time.

This is your time and this driving, harsh road is yours — your child.

This road is your child

and its songs are the songs we sing when we are born and when we die.

This is your time, yours and yours alone and

on this road you walk unencumbered, alight, aloft

until one day wings sprout from aching shoulders and

weary feet rest in cool waters

and you breathe softness and splendor once again