I look at myself
A blur
In the foggy mirror
Every morning
Even after washing away
Another layer
Of accumulated detritus
Like the sculptor
Finding the figure
Inside the stone
Like a cathedral
Not yet complete
A hundred years
After the passing
Of its architects
I remain a work in progress
Under construction
In this life
In the last
In the next
All that have been
And all yet to come
I knew the wolf
To be a wolf
But in the forest
He was kind to me
So did not think
To give a shout
Let Grandma know
Wolf was about
April fool, tis me
No fool
The Woodsman, he
Fortunately
Or for dessert
Wolf would have had
Me
The ebb
Of tides and life
Reveals the glories concealed
By full flood
No matter the words you say
No matter the things you do
All paths lead to you
A golden destination
Partially concealed
In unfathomable
Possibility
Spirit cracks
Inner light
Pierces darkness
Reminds conscious
Extant spirit
I lose myself in the sea
In the sounds of the waves
Breaking against the rocks
And the subtler susurrus
Of foamy water
Climbing then falling
The shallow sandy shoreline
The tiny boats
I make from the thoughts
I no longer want to have
Recede with the dying waves
To be consumed by the surf
I prepare more
With all the parts of me
I never asked for
Or cannot be rid of
And watch as they glide gently
Into roiling oblivion
I am free
For the duration
Of an ebb tide
Soon enough
The flood comes
The inexorable sea
Returns them all to me
This flow of life
This stream of possibility
This realm of plausible hope
Where I have seen
The interplay of darkness and light
And from it learned truly
That neither is possible
Without the other
Each renders texture upon the other
While the transitions between
Reveal the greatest insights
A grey day
Light flattened
By a thick
Midday haze
Made all the more grim
By my mood
Impenetrable as the atmosphere
From full steam
To dead ahead slow
All stations stop
Close my eyes
Deep breath
Not stopped
Becalmed
Diminished light emerges
Find the blue
In sky and sea
Contrast highlight with shadow
Underway, with tranquil gratitude
A monument to
Patriarchy rises where
Emerald once was plenty
Now all grey and jaundice
I often wonder
What the world would look like
Had the matriarchs run the show
And life were of feminine design
The earliest stars
Twinkle under a brazen moon
Keeping the sky
All to itself
Pix to Words 