I’ve walked since then with no one but the ghosts…
I found the water.
And I wept for everything.
And I learned to tell the world how gorgeous it is to be alone.
…………………..– Patrick Rosal “Finding Water”
See, here’s the thing –
I didn’t know how long it would take
just to get out the door. I had to
abandon the maps, and watch the windows
rise and fall, collect my steamy self
up off the floor and coax her most
of all to wear less sunscreen. But I did
it, with the help of a stray shoehorn. Reborn, and
claiming the calm that only freedom boasts,
I’ve walked since then with no one but the ghosts
and held the beat of tree limbs in my palms
pricked along these trickled trails
stretched and etched with fears and failures.
Their withered, weathered bark told tales and
lies of less tumbled times,
and I, their dissident daughter.
Two paths arose, sun-dimpled, shaded
in solitude, song and sway.
Begging my breath, and taking the broader,
I found the water.
Today, you rang a bell from some far
-off distant leaf, and I tried to follow
its whisper, but I lost the scent
somewhere after that giant oak
that bridges these shadows to sky. I gathered
twigs and tied them loose with crimson string
and made a ship to seize this borrowed breeze
as this rattled river rose too high,
steeled its soul and sold its sting.
And I wept for everything
we knew, uncaught, forgot.
I scattered my shed salt along the banks,
hoping others might follow its snow
even as my echo met with silence.
I wept, and wrapped my tired feet in all
the strangest sorrows these streams have ever known.
A flashlight moon laddered the falls
and lit the last unlittered edge.
Here I spilled my heart, a small and quiet stone,
and I learned to tell the world how gorgeous it is to be alone.
This is a glosa, written for Day 18 for the Poetic Asides PAD November Challenge. Click to see what a glosa is, read some others, and play around with one of your own.