I’ve become hesitant to post poems I’m writing, having gained some awareness that once something is published online it’s not generally publishable anywhere else. But writing a lot of things and not sharing any of them makes me feel a little like a bird with clipped wings. I have a lot of questions about what I might want to do next, but also want to keep putting things out into the universe believing more will come. Or maybe I’m just extremely impatient.
I’m heading off on a short backpacking trip with two dear friends early tomorrow morning, and as I get ready I’m thinking about darkness.
I will tell my children:
one day you may drift into
darkness, on a small ship
on the sea’s slick surface, the
moon’s reflected light reflecting
faint hope on the rolling waves.
Don’t fear this starkness,
the lonely vigil,
the shadows cast upon you and
against you, strange fish lapping
at your ship’s sides,
the roaring silence, your soul’s
uncertain state of repair.
You are alone here;
you will always be alone
in your quietest self, in your
beneath the huge sky’s awning,
no more here than in a crowd.
There is no safer harbour, there is no
certainty of life unfolding as you wish it,
as you believed had been granted,
had been gifted.
But you are alive now, luminous watcher,
buoyed by this silent cradle,
high up on the slippery waves,