Always too eager for the future, we
Pick up bad habits of expectancy.
Something is always approaching; every day
Till then we say,
Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear,
Sparking armada of promises draw near.
How slow they are! And how much time they waste,
Refusing to make haste!
Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks
Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks
Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinkled,
Each rope distinct,
Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tints
Arching our way, it never anchors; it’s
No sooner present than it turns to past.
Right to the last
We think each one will heave to and unload
All good into our lives, all we are owed
For waiting so devoutly and so long.
But we are wrong:
Only one ship is seeking us, a black-
Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back
A huge and birdless silence. In her wake
No waters breed or break.
i really feel this today.
the poem, today, to me, expresses what they say about life and death not being so dissimilar at all. the questions haunt me like the wind whispering without any inkling of pain it ain’t over till it’s over. the time fades the evenings into one, and i suddenly find a whole lifetime in a wink of an eye, silently, not even staring, not even seeking, not even wishing. it is this moment that i let go of fear, of possessiveness, of craving, of my immeasurably wrong need to compare and contrast.
it is in this moment that i find solace and care. it is in this moment that i find the music that soothes my soul. it is in this moment that i find the rhythm back to meet the next one, filled with noise, shadows that speak, doors that open and the orchestra that passes violently outside on the street.
this moment all other moments are folded into one and matter no more. only movement remains, and my beating heart is part of your beating heart is part of my wild soul is part of your wild soul as it always has been and always will be.
so be it.