Wandering Still
The waves roll
against an empty shore,
each one strong and steady
and painful, the sand grating
like life across my skin.
Here we stand, years
gone by, dreams like storybooks
from half-remembered
childhoods, nothing
how we once hoped
it would be.
Wandering still, my feet
carry me here again
and again, just
as they carry me through life, plodding
along like some faithful old mule, despite
my questioning that faith
with each step, that reason for walking forward
when all I know
is behind.
Grief is the good days:
it is sorrow for something good,
remembering something good.
It is the nothing that hits harder:
the lack, the emptiness,
the too many reasons to stop.
And yet—I return here:
I look out at that horizon,
memories fading like morning fog
in the sharp light of day.
I walk, step after step
in the roaring silence
and wonder still.
A Summer Road
This road is cracked: baked
so long in the sun, flies
buzzing languidly; the bushes
spark green
against the heat. Footsteps
steady below me, quietly:
like promises made to the sunrise, yet spoken
more surely
than a name. I wonder
if the air I breathe remembers
other travellers, pilgrims
set upon the same path for different
reasons, winding
through the trees, never knowing
what the end looks like or even
if there is one. Dirt
sifts in the breeze, light
as whispers; leaves tremble
before the passing of a truth, the passing
of one more set of weary
feet, sandals dark
with road dust but sturdy,
yet. I walk,
searching
for the glimmer of water, wondering
at the questions I have asked, feeling
for the heartbeat
of home.
The Tower
The tower stones
beneath me are cold
as death, crumbling
and forgotten, shaped
by the wind that grasps
at my clothing with bony
fingers, whistling
through the cracks
in us both.
The trees shift and sway
around us; the sky
a cauldron of churning
mercury. I brush
rough lichen with the soft pads
of my fingers, and wait,
not knowing who or what
I wait for.
No life rings
its footsteps on the ashy
stairs snaking up, no
hope sifts out
of the gathering dark
like sand beneath a desert
sunrise; I listen
for answers or assurances in this place
of ruin, but all I hear
are whispers: apologies
never spoken, and promises
lost to the echoes
of the past.
A Summer’s Day
Lovers walk / shining
like exotic
butterflies / shimmering
in the sunshine
of a perfect
day. Manicured
gardens segment / the park
beyond;
laughter / is paired
in couplets / like
the birds / flitting
above. A low
stone wall / marks
the beginning / of dappled
shade, of the old
watching / the young, of
me / waiting
by a stone / for only
one.
Growing Up
My bracelet says Believe:
not
Believe in yourself or
Believe humans
can be good. I
stutter and stop, stumble
and run a few
steps, always
questioning
whether a path so strange
could be real
or worth it.
I believed
in goodness
once, a fairy tale
to hold onto
through the long years
of abandonment. Believe
I didn’t need to tell myself
then. Believe
back then
was the air
I breathed, not
the bracelet I wore.