May I never lose my way to getting lost, may I never resist the urge to leave it all, may I never shelter my face from the storm, may I never let my arms fall in the downpour, may I never fully wash off the grit of the sand, and may I never be restrained by clock or human hand.
May I never negotiate with my soul: may I never let anyone close the window.
Illusion of control, I never really drove, not on a road trip of my own; I rode round and round, hair in the breeze, holding on to the mane of carousel dreams, never free. Now I am. But the invisible reins of pleasing so long keeps me stalled in the corral; my voice on auto-pilot agreeing with everyone else. A passenger yet. I sit quietly still looking out the windows. But in the rearview mirrors, I frame my favorite parts, and up ahead in the near distance, I see the peaks of my heart’s desires. I think I am ready to take the wheel while listening to nature on God’s behalf appeal to my soul, that home, I’ve carried all along. I only needed to use my voice to steer to where I belong. I will need to put it in park for the final leg, so I can ride bareback on my stallion away from all of them…
When I write, I write from prompts, the ones organically generated around me, from nature, usually from my own photographic capture. But what if I started only with the classic white space? A screen, a cursor – better yet, lined paper – better yet, the heavier plummet of fingers upon a typewriter… Yes, I do remember…
When I write, I begin without an ending, never know the next letter even; it’s always a surprise, an adventure I am but the vehicle for, at the will of my muse. And so it goes with this warm-up practice getting back into the habit of creating the dance in the absence of the music. The sound and lyrics within need but the expression mechanism; there is never a pause in my mind, there will never be a time in which my fingers do not itch for the dance with or without the prompt, with or without a reader. I am a writer. And not by chance.
Except this exercise was supposed to be non-poetry. I’ll start again but an essayist, I may simply no longer be. I long for it, but wrong it seems to try to suppress this sing-song in me that happens whenever my spirit brushes up against these keys, and my wings remember the feel of the breeze, and my heart remembers what it is to be free.
I am the maiden from your dreams whose song you still heard in your non-sleep, deep in the wood where the single beam breached the dark and lit the lilting stream that you followed, barefoot-steady on mossy rock, determined to find the source entrancing your heart.
Maiden, faery, mythological immortal, you knew not the form of the feminine aura, only that you would never be at peace until you tasted the voice that gave purpose to the breeze
that reached you over and over again both far away and as breath upon your skin, closer now than you’ve ever been, always determined I’d be just around the next bend,
and this time, the end of the search, back turned, I felt your presence, white dress, hem drenched by the river, wildflowers woven through waterfalling tresses;
unsure if the heavens kept a soft beam on me or that was my own light self-illuminating, you froze in awe, then began to weep in relief as I slowly turned and used your name in my greeting.
Never so sweet were three syllables ever spoken until the ones that soon followed when in your arms, I was finally enfolded–– the fit, so long ago star-blessed and divinely molded.