We joined the group at the bottom of the cracked stone steps, some of them were barefoot
Roots and twigs bending and contorting
A collection of those repressed failed attempts, of blood and memory, joy and visceral pains left behind
She was new, moving with grace and apprehension
Her voice swam into my ear so effortlessly
As if the drum and cord had been sealed by string
Were you meant to? Were we meant, too
Did you find your way through barracks and empty closets?
Or through delicate spoons and an architect’s vision of the future?
What difference does it really make, in the end
She moved closer, saying that my intuition was the only thing saving us all from another life cycle, the replicated experience, of a collapsed star
That the scars all pointed in the same direction, to the garden where we stood, still
At an impasse between flipping through an old photo album, ripping at the seams
And the light shining on the white flowers and moss on the forest floor
They’re waiting for you on the North shore, they’ve been waiting a very long time
The Doldrums shifted, the tides adjusted from a decades long fixed position, the sails followed
Their many voices whispered over my shoulder
“it’s the only direction we haven’t tried yet”
This is the first time I’ve written in over a year - this poem came from reflecting within a space I’ve kept inside myself of peace. But that space stores all of my various attempts at changing the circumstances of my life, small iterations over time, all failed and locked away in a place I never talk to anyone about. This year has provided a lot of clarity, finding a sense of real direction that takes completely diving in instead of nearly identical iterations. The direction was North all along, the future, and not the past, always held the key.
