How is a picture like a poem, a journal like a sketchbook?
The lines blur, as I walk the path that leads away from the city of poles.
“Rise up, from the ashes once again, dear friend…”
These are precious days. There is no more smoke in the air. Let the wind fill my sails. I am homeward bound.
Zounds! These gems in the water burn memories from my eyes. When I return I will be both the empress and a babe!
On a day of quiet sailing I hear the whale’s song. Many times I heard it before (mostly while sleeping), but I could not receive them as now. How wonder full to take in her melody!
I cannot know my dear companion’s tongue. We are destined to be strange to one another throughout this life. Yet, as I surrender, to the utter fatigue which nearly destroyed me, to the ebbs and flows of my long-haul perilous journey…as I sit in this moment secure, in this solid boat, built and damaged and many times repaired by my own hand…her song strokes me like the soothing back rubs of my long gone grandmother…and like the loving caress of the one…
…and I come to know its meaning. Even if I never see this opulent bowl of the high seas again, smell her briny cocktail of life and death, feel the sharp darts of her storms or the gulpy slaps of her cajoling, I will forever carry this song within me. I know what it is to be rocked like an infant in Mine Own Mother’s arms.
Home. I have already arrived, even though there are many miles and footfalls ahead. I will receive them as well.
Sing sweet sister, blue and gray (mirror in my eyes), from the womb cave of all time, the river-sea, from the soul of ouroboros.