Solitude —
hard sought,
seldom won —
catches me
by the sleeve
at the end of the world,
when the sun
has long since
curled around
the cusp of midnight.
Exhilaration and fear
ionize the air.
Bewildered,
breathless,
I sink onto
the closest outcropping
to inhale the atmosphere
and pay humble respects.
Waves, echoing
the ebb and flow
of human emotion,
swell and slam and shudder
against the shore —
manic, insistent —
demanding
one inch more.
Earth trembles, moans, with
a 3 a.m. longing
only the sky
can hear.
You’d think the world
would split wide open from
all that desperation.
Exhaustion enfolds me —
amidst Nature’s infinite chaos
I am swallowed by sleep —
arms outstretched,
palms upward,
my small sacrifice
offered to appease
that lunatic heaven...
The waves,
knowing tradition better,
slink silently away,
tide pools trickling
their fullness through
the crevasses of time.
An eagle cries,
dim light haunts my eyes.
In the late morning mist
I see those craggy cauldrons,
once full and fomenting,
now empty, exposed, excoriated:
an image of
my own cupped hands,
a reflection of
my very heart.
